A Dangerous Game
by nataliet9
Summary: When Irene gets unexpectedly involved in a mysterious case, it is up to Sherlock to balance between a new danger and an old sentiment.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! I'm a huge Sherlock/Irene fan so I wanted to write a new story in which their intelligence would be applied in a case. This takes place after A Scandal in Bohemia, so also after Karachi. I don't own any of the characters, so all the credits go to BBC and Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and the others.

This chapter is just an introduction, so stay with me for the rest!

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><p>Sherlock sat in his armchair, watching the people of London pass by through the window. He felt comfortable, almost lazy on that particular afternoon. His long fingers formed a triangle as he sailed away in an endless sea of thoughts. He didn't even notice the persistent knocking, although even if he had, he would have ignored it carelessly.<p>

"I need you, now." Detective Inspector Lestrade rushed into the room, breathing heavily as if he almost ran up the stairs.

"I'm busy, can't you see?"

"Oh come on, with what? This is important Sherlock, there are lives at stake. Come on, you'll...you'll like it."

Sherlock looked up at him, very slowly and seemed pleased with the expression of disgust on his face after that last conclusion.

"All right, what happened, from the start? Cover all the facts and DON'T be boring."

"Another prostitute has been found dead. Same like the other ones, you probably saw it in the papers. What you didn't see is that they were all slaughtered, hunting knife. A standard one, it can be found at any army shop. No forensic traces, so basically...we've got nothing. Interested?"

Of course he was. But, as if Lestrade was an overconfident girl he was on a date with, he didn't want to show it too much. He couldn't hold back a smirk as he slowly got up, and walked to his bedroom to pick up his coat and scarf. "Well, I guess I could take a short look, I mean, considering how busy I currently am..."

Lestrade smiled. He will never change.

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><p>They arrived at the crime scene, first Lestrade and then Sherlock, in a taxi, right behind the police car. It was a three star hotel, nothing too fancy but a cozy place in a not to crowded street. They went to the second floor, and then down the hall to a room whose door was covered in police tape. Luckily, neither Anderson nor Sally were on duty today.<p>

Sherlock approached the body. With a quick glance he could tell that the girl was Caucasian, late twenties, attractive, wearing expensive lingerie. That fitted Lestrade's description of her profession. He would never admit it, of course, but he sometimes missed John in situations like this. Although highly unlikely, perhaps he would have a useful remark, something Sherlock hasn't already seen. But today it wouldn't be necessary.

"That tattoo on her ankle, did the other ones have it?"

"I think so. They had many tattoos, it's not uncommon with this kind of people. Why?"

"And once again you fail to observe anything of importance. That tattoo, that particular tattoo is only seen in one group of high class prostitutes, that is how their clients know that they are well protected, so they never even get the idea of going too far with them. At least until now. "

"So, what do we do now?"

"We don't do anything. You carry on with this, and I'll go home."

"Well, that sounds reasonable; after all, we are the official police here."

"But of course Detective Inspector...I would never get in your way. Afternoon."

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><p>Thank you for reading and please review! It's my first story so I could use constructive criticism. :)<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

The real plot starts now, so stay with me :) And please review. Also, a special thanks to Aussieflower :)

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><p>Go home? Not when there's finally something fun going on. Leaving Lestrade to think he is in charge gave him just the right amount of time to get a head start on the investigation. He crossed paths with this group in a previous case. What he knew of them was that their clientele was of the highest social statuses, millionaires, diplomats, even members of the government.<p>

It was getting dark, just the time to visit such a place. Their residency was in a beautiful old mansion, just outside the center of London. The cab left him in front of a very tall metal gate, which continued into an ornamented fence with round, spear point finals. Through the gate you could see a long path out of white stones and regularly groomed trees. To anyone else, it would seem like just another bourgeois villa. But, thanks to a previous case, Sherlock knew better. He had investigated a kidnapping case of a young playboy who was last seen at these premises and then he had a chance to glimpse at the hidden world of entertainment only for the chosen narrow circles.

While he approached the gate, he noticed two cameras carefully observing him. Nothing surprising, they liked to see who wanted to visit them from a safe distance. Just before he approached the gate, a male voice was heard from the speaker.

"Mr. Holmes, I wasn't expecting to see you here again. Business or pleasure?"

"Business of course." He coldly replied.

The gate opened and Sherlock went up the path to the house. A very classy butler opened the door with a small bow.

"Sir, I was instructed to show you the way to the second room on the left in this corridor Sir."

"Instructed by whom? And why?"

Sherlock remembered this butler well. He was probably the only man employed in this house, perhaps because he was so old or because he knew all its secrets and never said a word. He raised his eyebrows in suspicion but then continued to the instructed room. The door was closed, but he didn't bother knocking.

He found himself in a bedroom with a high ceiling and a crystal chandelier. The room gave the impression of style and wealth. In the center of the room was a bed with closed red curtains. He had a strange feeling in his stomach about this, but he decided it was best to ignore it; feelings were never good. He approached the bed slowly and opened the curtains.

On the bed lay a woman. She was lying on her front so he couldn't see her face, but as his gaze went up from her long legs and black heals up her attractive figure in a black corset to her long, dark brown curls falling on her back. The feeling in his stomach changed as he observed her long elegant fingers with red nails, now it felt like he was carrying led, like he couldn't breathe anymore.

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><p>He remembered the last time he saw her. How she shivered from the breeze on that evening in the port. How he pretended he didn't see that she had something to say. How he saw a mixture of shame, disappointment and gratitude in her eyes.<p>

One would think that traveling across the world to save someone from an almost certain brutal death would be far more inconvenient than admitting to this certain someone: "Hey, I obviously care since I put my neck to the line by saving your neck from a very nasty fate." Or saying something as goofy as that, not to mention any other, heavier statement. But not Sherlock. He stood there, all mysterious with his cheekbones, with a cold and distant appearance. She obviously needed a hug after all she's been through, god knows it's been a lot, but he just couldn't give it.

He put her on a small, luxurious boat whose captain made no unnecessary questions for the right amount of money. He handed her a suitcase containing a new ID, nice, new clothes, a plane ticket and lots of cash to open doors for her. She looked up at him through her long eyelashes, blue eyes that were once so playful and now so sad. She took a deep breath and said:

"So, this is it?"

"I don't think I forgot anything. Your further travel plans are in the suitcase, also enough money to start a new life whose details are also packed in there. Have I missed anything?"

He was really a puzzle, she taught. One moment he holds her hand by the fireplace so gently, the next one he leaves her to her fate with no mercy. One moment he risks his life to save hers and the next one he is treating her like a package he should bring to a boat to be sent further, nothing more.

She gathered strength for one, last try and her eyes glowed playfully as they used to.

"There is no time for dinner since the boat is about to leave, but a goodbye kiss? It won't hurt, I promise." said she while getting closer to him.

Not being able to ignore her completely but still standing his ground he gave her a soft smile.

"Goodbye, Miss Adler."

Trying to convince herself that it was a good sign, she smiled softly back at him, and then turned around to the boat, and to her new life. It hurt. She hoped she will forget, because her sentiment was once again on the losing side.

Many nights after that he sat, sleepless, regretting the moment when he masked his cowardness with uncaring. But even if he would return to that moment, he still wouldn't have the words. He would have stood there petrified and watch her leave again and again. Perhaps its better this way, he tried to convince himself, because after all, caring is not an advantage.

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><p>He tried to recover control over himself as the brown-eyed woman turned around to face him.<p>

"Hello. My name is Rebecca. I bet I can guess what you like."

He shook his head, more trying to clear his thoughts and explain to himself it was not her then to negate her offer. But she resembled her so much. How could this be? He didn't have enough time to think it through, because she put her arms around his neck, and said:

"So, what can I do for you?"

He untangled himself from her arms and regained his uninterested cold expression with a lot of effort.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'm a detective and I'm investigating the murder of some of your coworkers. What is your knowledge of the matter?"

This subject was not pleasing her as her body language had told Sherlock, because she folded her arms across her chest and moved slightly backwards.

"You're not the police, why should I tell you anything?"

"Because the police consult me when they don't have a clue what to do which is always. Now, what do you know of this case? It is in our mutual interest that I leave here as soon as possible, so we can both continue with our work."

Not liking the police but liking arrogant men, she loosened up a little.

"All right, let's talk. The missing...dead girls worked here, I knew them all. They went to see clients and never came back. Our boss arranged the deals, so these people were checked so they didn't do it. Since then we only work here, where we're safe. Anything else?"

They really look alike. Is that a professional thing? Perhaps. No I guess not. Focus, Sherlock thought.

"And this boss of yours, who is he? Did the girls have anything in common that distinct them from the others? Where are there rooms? Did they behave differently, perhaps they suspected something?"

She laughed, approaching dangerously close again.

"Aren't you curious, Mr...Holmes, wasn't it? They behaved normally; I don't think they could have anticipated something like this. They were just like any other girl around here. And there rooms are not available for you to see, house policy, sorry. And now..."

She took him by surprise; her arms were again wrapped around his neck and she kissed him before he could defend himself. It took him a second too long to get out of it because he was again trapped in some old memories. When he finally pulled back, she seemed very self satisfied.

"Maybe next time I'm the victim so I get your full attention, detective?"

"It's a morbid joke. Well I'll be of now. I'll leave you my number in case you remember anything usefull. Good evening."

She blew him a kiss and he rushed down the stairs out of the house.

What was happening to him, he taught in the cab. He never seemed to be distracted by women before. A little voice in his head said: "That's not entirely true." To be more irritating, this voice seemed to be John's. For many months now, he successfully suppressed the thoughts of The Woman while working. But this girl resembled her so much so he got carried away. He promised himself it will not happen again.


	3. Chapter 3

"Can you pass me the milk?" John almost hopelessly asked.

Sherlock pushed it towards him on the table without even lifting his glance from the newspapers. It was an ordinary morning at 221 B.

"Lestrade called about the murder cases; he said you should phone him if you find anything out. He thinks he'll find out where the girls worked any time now."

Sherlock could barely hold back his smile. Oh, this Scotland Yard.

They sat there, enjoying the newspapers when they were interrupted by the ringing on Sherlock's phone. He answered lazily after John gave him an are-you-really-not-picking-up look.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Something happened last night when you left. I...I think I'm in danger." The female voice sounded very frightened.

Sherlock straightened up in his chair and suddenly looked very concentrated.

"Rebecca? What happened? In what sort of danger?"

Sherlock rarely received phone calls from women other then perhaps Molly, so this caught John's attention. Noticing that, Sherlock stood up and walked out of the room.

"I...I can't talk right now. Could we meet around five? That's when I could slip out unnoticed... Maybe in that café down town, the "Singing teapot", you know?"

"Fine. But I Insist that you specify what..." but she already hung up.

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><p>Sherlock waited at the café for an hour but the girl never appeared. He was rather irritated by the taught that she could just be messing with him, but then again, she seemed very scared, he remembered.<p>

After deciding that she would have shown up by now if she ever had the intention to, he took a cab back to the flat. When he returned home, he found DI Lestrade sitting in his living room with John.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he sarcastically asked while taking his coat off.

"I found where the dead girls worked; it is some kind of private mansion, probably an exclusive brothel."

"Thank you for that enlightenment inspector, you are so luminous."

"Yes, well, unfortunately, we found another girl dead there. We were late an hour, maybe even less. Same as the others, pretty, mid twenties..."

"With long, curly hair?"

"Yes. How would you for heaven's sake know that? Don't tell me you've added precognition to your repertoire?"

Sherlock took a long breathe. How could he be so stupid, how didn't he foresee this? He turned around to exit the flat and the other two men followed him with confused expressions on their faces.

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><p>She was found in her room, lying lifeless on her bed. She was killed the same way as the others. Just next in line, Lestrade taught.<p>

Sherlock taught differently. The other victims suspected nothing; this one was killed because she found something out. He should have prevented this; he should have come here when she didn't appear at their meeting place.

While Lestrade and John were examining the body, something else caught Sherlock's attention. Under a pile of clothes on the sofa, a corner of a lap top could be seen. Perhaps she kept a diary of some sort. In a few energetic steps he crossed the room, took out the lap top and turned it on.

The quick view of the lap top's content showed no diary or notes, but Sherlock's eyes filled with excitement when a notification "one new e-mail" appeared in the bottom right corner.

He never respected people's privacy and this was not the time he would even consider starting that, so he opened the message without any further delay.

_From: .nl_

_Subject: Re: I'm panicking here_

_Calm down. As long as you stay at home they won't get to you. I can't come over, we've discussed this. Make sure you delete this e-mail like the other ones and don't contact me again if it isn't absolutely necessary. M_

M wasn't among his favorite letters but Sherlock hoped that this was another M, any other M. But this was a clue, he taught. He knew an MI-6 man who owed him a favor; it was time he returned it by locating the sender of this e-mail.

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><p>The results of the search lead to a gentlemen's club in Amsterdam. Was this case curious enough for Sherlock to jump on a plane and fly over there to check it out?<p>

"What's the deal here? You are acting really strange, and by this I don't mean your normal strange, this is another type of strange." John interrupted his chain of taught as he took the place in the chair opposite to him.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Oh sure you do. You know, I'm not that stupid. Since the murder of that girl, you're behaving strange. You're deep thinking, which is normal, but you seem sad about it. Or something like that, shaken. Why?"

"Why would I be shaken by a death on a case? You inform the whole world that it happens a lot in your blog, you should be aware of it yourself."

John wouldn't give up that easily.

"Before Lestrade came to inform us of her death, you knew who she was. How?"

"Since Lestrade was progressing as fast as a turtle, I went to that house and that's where I met her. She wasn't very cooperative so I told her to contact me if she found anything out, which she did. I went to meet her on the place she specified but she never showed up. When I came home, Lestrade was here to inform us she was dead. The rest you already know."

John felt as if he was on dangerous grounds. Was Sherlock feeling guilty that he didn't save her? Sorry for her? He was feeling something, obviously. John knew Sherlock too well not to miss the small and rare signs of feelings in his behavior.

He started uncomfortably:

"Well, it's not your fault. I mean, if anyone could have prevented it, it would be you, but since you didn't..."

"Then it couldn't have been done, right? Wrong John."

John decided it was enough of feelings analysis for the time being so he went to make tea to break the tension. Sherlock staid in his place, motionless. He hated that, but John was right. He had a professional guilt for not saving the girl, but he couldn't get the picture of her just laying there, motionless, but with Irene's face, out of his mind. He successfully suppressed his worries for her, because by suppressing them, he was also doing a great job on ignoring the fact that she existed somewhere out there.

The truth was, he had no idea where she was. A few days after they split and he returned to London, he received a text from her.

_Thank you for saving my life, you really are my hero. I am eternally grateful to you, but this is the last time you'll be hearing from me. Our last meeting made it clear for me that it is less painful if we stay away from each other. Don't forget me. IA_

It was the longest text he ever got from her, and that's why he believed it was the last. This time she put all her efforts in not being found. There were a few reasons why she will always be The Women to Sherlock Holmes and two of them were her intelligence and wit. She used them well in her wish not to be found.

But ever since Sherlock ran into Rebecca, he couldn't get Irene out of his mind. This random girl that looked like her so much unlocked all the hidden emotions and now he found himself unable to concentrate. If he solves this case it might stop, he taught.

He packed his suitcase with clothes for a few days, his lap top and, for just in case, his British army browning 9A1. You never know with these people on the other side of the canal. John couldn't accompany him on this trip since Mrs. Hudson was down with the flue, so someone needed to stay and look after her.

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><p>It was a sunny morning when he landed on Schiphol airport. He visited this city once when he was in college and enjoyed it very much. One wouldn't expect that Sherlock Holmes enjoys common things as boat rides through the canals, but as he was alone here and he had the whole day before visiting his target spot, he allowed himself this guilty pleasure.<p>

After checking in a hotel and double checking all the details of his plan, he dressed up for the club. He also called John using some stupid excuse that he misplaced some thumbs in the apartment to check on Mrs. Hudson.

The club building was a classy old building, typical for this part of Amsterdam. On the door stood a man in his mid thirties with the appearance of an ex military man, but so different from John; this man killed for living as Sherlock deduced from his left hand. But now he had a welcoming, fake smile and a chilling cold look; it activated Sherlock's inner alarm.

The man addressed to him in fluent English, recognizing him as a foreigner:

"Welcome sir! May I know your respected name? I'm sure it is on the guest list, but you know, these unfortunate formalities."

"Yes, of course. I am Sir Edmund Talbot. My secretary called to make the arrangements because you see, I am new in town." To anyone who knew Sherlock, the broad smile on his face was unnatural and a bit scary.

He checked the list and gave Sherlock another fake welcoming smile.

"You're there sir" said the big man. "Please, come in and have a good time."

"Oh I expect nothing less."

The club was furnished with big leather sofas; the space was divided by red, velvet curtains. The weak light was provided by electric imitations of candles on many chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. It was bright enough to see where you are going but not enough to be seen from a greater distance. It was a place which provided the necessary privacy for its members, for whatever they had on their minds.

Sherlock looked around. Since he carefully planned his fieldtrip, he made sure he memorized the map of the building from the original construction plans. He ordered a scotch and a cigar to blend in and then sneaked up the stairs unnoticed among other well dressed men looking for entertainment. From his source he found out the manager's office was now in a big room upstairs.

The door wasn't locked which surprised Sherlock. The manager or someone else might be there he thought while he wrapped his fingers around the gun.

Much to his surprise, the room was empty. It was decorated in the same style like the other parts of the house he already saw; it was a typical study for a rich man that liked his comfort. He came in and closed the door behind him. While he was observing the flames dancing in the fireplace, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Mr. Holmes, you finally changed your mind about dinner?"

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><p>So, what did you think? :) Do you think Sherlock is in character enough? I would appreciate reviews to see am I progressing well :)<p>

Thank you for reading! :)


	4. Chapter 4

In that moment, Sherlock felt like he needed to be wrapped in a shock blanket. He wasn't sure how but in the same time he felt completely empty from the shock and completely overwhelmed with different physical reactions to stress and the stampede of thoughts racing through his mind. His pulse went through the roof as she gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Aren't you going to look at me Mr. Holmes? Or are the ornaments of the fireplace more interesting?"

Sherlock snapped out of his trance. As always, this was a competition of wit. He turned around slowly to face The Woman once more. He studied her expression; she was happy to see him, that was evident, but she also seemed frighteningly self satisfied. She wore a little black dress that flattered her body in all the right ways; her hairstyle was different, still long and curly but it was all combed to one side which made visible the long, diamond earrings that she wore.

He was on her terrain now as she knew he was coming. Cursing himself for not realizing this before, Sherlock started with a very calm voice, not letting this register on an emotional level:

"Well, Miss Adler, you look better then the last time I saw you. Your second life has been treating you well I see?"

"As you see. I must return the compliment, you look well yourself. A bit pale and surprised at the moment, but generally fine."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as a reaction to her remark and she reacted to that with a small, shy smile.

"I'm here because of a murder investigation back in London."

"I know."

"Clearly."

"This seems like a déjà vu. Do you want me to drug you and beat you now, or a bit later?" she couldn't hold her laugh back anymore.

This lured out an honest smile out form the detective.

"I'd rather leave the beating for later, if you don't have anything in mind."

"Not at all. But, I'll take your word for it."

"Let's discuss the case first. What is your knowledge of...?"

"And what will happen after this 'first'?" she wouldn't let him off the hook so easily.

"...these murders. Why did you write an e-mail to the latest victim and what are you doing here?" he ignored her again.

She gave in to his order of things, so she sat in an armchair next to the fireplace and indicated him to do the same. She felt pleasantly uncomfortable from the intensity of his look.

"I responded to an e-mail she sent to me about her fears from whoever killed the other women. I am the manager of this place and of that one in London as well. I figured that continuing my old line of work won't do any good for my new undercover life, but I couldn't completely leave the line of work if you know what I mean. So I decided that instead of doing the recreational scolding myself, I educate and organize others to do it for me. Thus my presence here."

"So M in the letter was for Madame? I shouldn't be surprised; even if you're presumably dead you still know what people like."

"Exactly. And if I even have to point it out, I have no idea who killed these girls and I was in no way involved in that."

"I know. But I have a different theory now. At first I taught someone was killing prostitutes from a special group because they were harder to get to so it was a challenge, or because they were exclusive so it was a sick ego boost. Except that, now I see that they have another thing in common. You. I'm not sure why, but it seems that someone is using them to get your attention; or to get at you. Either way, I think you are not safe here anymore. "

"Not safe? Maybe I should sneak into your bedroom like the last time I didn't feel safe. But since you're already here, I might spare myself the trip."

Sherlock got up and started pacing with his hands on his back the room nervously. He hadn't expected the case to go in this direction. It seemed more concerning by the minute and it wasn't helping him to focus that she sat there piercing him with her look.

"Oh, by the way, did you like her? Did I guess well?" asked Irene provocatively.

"Did I like who?"

"The girl of course, Rebecca. I was informed that you paid the mansion a visit so I instructed that they lead you to her. I think I taught her well, don't you? I had to give her some information, just to let her know what to expect from you. I think my exact words were: I know a man and I know what he likes. In fact, I think I am what he likes."

He stopped and took a deep breath. She was not getting away with that. It was a cheap trick, but he played on the card of her sentiment.

"Oh you taught her well indeed. In fact, if I knew her a bit longer, I suppose her pulse would give her feelings away at some critical point which would lead to her losing everything she worked for her whole life."

"But then you would come to her rescue as well? You have a tendency to save women who attract your attention." Irene was on her feet as well now.

"Perhaps I would have. If she was anything like you, she would end up on the losing side soon enough."

"I'd always choose the losing side when the alternative is crossing half the globe and risking your life for someone you don't give a damn about, and then just letting them leave. And now you're here and..." Unintentionally Irene had started screaming at him.

Sherlock sensed that he went too far.

"Oh, you meant me by that?" he innocently asked. That made her laugh. But a few seconds after that, it made her sad.

She looked down for what seemed an eternity to Sherlock and then she looked up right into his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I overreacted. It's just...never mind."

Sherlock knew what she meant as he knew it back in Karachi as well, but now he decided to say something. Anything. Baby steps.

"It's fine. I...I wanted to mess with you, you did nothing wrong."

"Sherlock Holmes admitting defeat? Sorry, I can't help myself, the words just fly right out of my mouth."

They both laughed. Admitting it or not, seeing each other again was at the very top of their happiness list. She broke the silence first.

"So, you think someone is out to get me? With us together, I mean with us working together, they'll have the time of their lives trying."

"Exactly."

"So, dinner? I'm not teasing, don't give me that look, I just taught you might be hungry?"

"As a matter of fact, I am."

"I am hungry toooo." Said a voice at the door, the last voice either of them wanted to hear for the rest of their lives.

They quickly turned around to face the consulting criminal who had a turtle face and tried to look childishly innocent.

"Did you miss me?"

Sherlock, as well as Irene had temporarily lost the ability to speak.

"Oh come on now. I missed you both sooo muuuuuch. In fact, I missed you so much that I simply had to cut the strings of a few puppets to inspire you to meet again. You look sooo adorable together. Can we name the baby Jim, can we, can we?"

Unconsciously, Sherlock took a step forward in order to shield Irene from Moriarty's presence that was, in his mind, mildly put radioactive.

"What is your game here? Causing trouble again?" said Sherlock with disgust in his voice.

"I felt like pulling some strings, dear. And you both make such adorable puppets. Because, you know, I've been watching you. While she was doing her best to think like you and in that way, to avoid you finding her, she forgot about other spiders out to catch a flie. So I couldn't bare the poor girl so sad and alone; I decided to be cupid and bring you back together. Isn't that adoooorable?" The more innocently he seemed, the glow of pure madness was more evident in his dark eyes.

Sherlock pointed his gun at Moriarty, repeating the deadly dance.

"What comes now, snipers, and then you dramatically exit and reenter the scene?

"Only if this time she jumps at me like your other darling human. The script must be followed, puppets."

Irene spoke now with the unmistakable authoritative tone which brought many of her clients down on their knees.

"Enough with the disgusting sweet talk; you're giving my ears diabetes. What do you want?"

Irene's words changed Moriarty from puppy to snake within the second.

"I love woman with an attitude. It's touching how defensive you get about him. Maybe I could make you into a left and him into a right shoe? That's how you would be a real pair."

"If you want us dead, please, we are at your disposal right here."

"Kill you? Don't be obvious. First we should play a game. A game of the naughty spider and two helpless little flies trying to untangle from his big, bad web. The rules to this delightful game are: I let you go and in twenty four hours one of you comes back here to die and the other one lives. Or I'll be generous, let it be forty eight hours so you can really grow fond of each other before the inevitable. I can't take all the credit though; I got the idea from the heroic sacrifice John was willing to give. But, then again, he is so ordinary and loyal. Can the same be expected from you two, the dominatrix in love and the fake sociopath? And if you decide to play Romeo and Julie, you both die which you of course already realized. Don't be laaate." He exited the room, but then returned only to peak his head through the door:

"Oh, and I forgot. I wouldn't stick around here for too long; this place will blow up in a few minutes. Just to help you adjust to the pressure of time. Until we meet again, lovebirds."

Irene and Sherlock looked at each other and quickly decided that now is not a good time to talk.

They ran for their lives down the stairs.

"Wait. The people in the salon!"

"I've got it." she said and hit the fire alarm.

With the sound of sirens they ran out to the street.

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><p>So, what did you think? Is it in character enough? :) The typos are intentional, I just tried to imitate the way Moriarty talks. :)<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He felt like he had slept for a very long time, and his head still felt very heavy. The light was too strong, he taught. John must have opened the curtains as a subtle sign for him to stand up. He decided to ignore this invasion to his lazy sleep routine so he covered his head with a pillow and rotated himself to a more comfortable position. And that's when he remembered.

Not too long after they exited the club building, its second floor went out with a bang. It wasn't a big explosion, more of a warning firework. The police arrived shortly after, along with the firemen who extinguished the fire in less than half an hour. Nobody died in what was later diagnosed as a gas leak in an already old building. The majority of the people that were inside the building not long before the explosion discretely vanished into thin air, perhaps because of the shock, more likely because they didn't want their rich, influential faces on the photos from the fire report. Those not so worried of their public reputation, reported of a young woman which was the manager of the club activating the fire alarm and swiftly disappearing the scene accompanied by a tall man with black curly hair.

One wouldn't expect to see Sherlock Holmes biking in his long coat with his cold and distant attitude, but it was the fastest way around town and more important, it was the way everybody moved around, so it didn't attract attention. One could be even more surprised to see the former dominatrix on a bicycle, in high heels and an evening dress, but there wasn't any sign of discomfort on her face. She was clearly accustomed to this way of traveling around. She made no effort to hide her laugh while she observed Sherlock's displeased face while he tried to dodge the other bicycles on the pavement.

They stopped in front of an apartment building in one of the main streets. They chained their bicycles to a fence above the canal and Irene showed to the building behind them:

"This is where I live. I'm sure dear Jim knows that already, but I'm counting on his common decency" she rolled her eyes "to let us be until the end of his precious deadline. Or we will just be blown up when we enter, but that would really be too much for one day, so I'm counting on option number one. God, I hate that man."

"Sentiment is a chemical defect, even negative sentiment." Sherlock reminded her while they climbed up the stairs. "Getting emotionally involved in a case never brings anything good. It clouds your ability to think and to deduce in a proper way..."

"Oh just shut up." Irene cut his brainy monologue. "We're here. I forgot my bag there in all the mess, it's a good thing I keep a spare one in here." she said as she extended her arm towards a lamp on the wall. She moved the lamp with one arm as she unhooked the key from a small hook behind it, completely invisible to someone who didn't know it was there. She unlocked the big, wooden door and they entered a very roomy hallway.

"Wow." Sherlock was honestly impressed. "You have an apartment this big in this part of town? I'll consider changing jobs with you."

"Yes...I look forward to seeing your battle dress in that case." she said with a seductive smile. "I need a bath after all this running. You could make tea, I haven't had a good English tea in ages...or you could just join me if you like."

"Oh I would, believe me, but earlier this evening you threatened to drug me, so I'd rather stay here, where it's safe." He made the most sincere puppy dog face, to which she rolled her eyes.

"I knew you were a coward deep down. Will you at least help me with unzipping my dress? I am so clumsy with this things, I'm rarely dressed so fancy." Her puppy dog face wasn't convincing either.

"Or dressed at all." He added while slowly pulling the zipper down her back. He tried very hard to prevent his eyes following the path his hands took and to keep them very focused on the back of Miss Alder's head.

"Thank you. I hope you were at least observant, selflessly helping without even a peak is quite foolish."

"I have a photographic memory in case you have any more safes to be opened, no need to look again."

"Your loss. Make yourself comfortable, I'll need a while."

She let the dress slowly fall of her to the floor and then, without looking back she proceeded to the bathroom.

Sherlock's curiosity was very grateful for this solitary moment in Irene's apartment. He always had a hard time analyzing her and her actions, so snooping around her nest was a rare treat he would not pass.

The living room he was in was roomy, with a lot of light. It was completely different then her house in Belgravia which had a high stylish but sterile atmosphere. No, this room was dominated by warm, earth tones combined with wood and steel decorations. It wasn't a place where she received clients; it was her home. Next to the living room were the kitchen and the dining room, also very roomy. The table had ten chairs around it, but the floor had small marks only under one of them, which meant she regularly ate alone there. He found the kettle and tea, fulfilling her tea request.

While the water was heating, he could look around a bit more. He opened a door from the hallway which was, as he saw, her bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, wondering whether entering here would be an over breach of her privacy. Since he was mildly said socially unadjusted, he didn't have a custom to be in the house of somebody he knew, a friend, so he wasn't sure if Irene would mind him looking around. He knew she would gladly have him in her bedroom, but in that case, he'd be too tide up to touch anything.

The books on her nightstand and the framed photos on the wall voted in favor of entering and the little decent voice (John's again) was sent back to a far corner of his mind. He approached the wall where a teenage girl he recognized as Irene sat on a bench next to a woman with the same bright blue eyes, almost certainly her mother. Irene looked so innocent and childish. What path she took from this sweet, shy looking girl to the self confident woman biting a whip on the home page of a web-site was a mystery he planned to reveal.

A book was open on her nightstand, and some words were underlined which drew Sherlock's attention. She was currently reading "The Bad Girl" by Mario Vargas Llosa. Nobel Prize winner was written on the cover, which didn't cause a sudden wave or respect or interest in Sherlock. But the title suited her. He sat next to the window and turned the pages until he fell into deep thoughts.

Less than a day ago he was in London, talking to John and Lestrade and things seemed perfectly ordinary. Now he was sitting in the bedroom of The Woman, holding her possessions. Strange chain of events, he thought. Moriarty's death threat seemed unreal to him as everything else. He needed some time alone to plan his next move. And a cigarette. Many cigarettes. But, just as he was passing through the gate of his mind palace, a voice made him jump:

"Are you familiar with the book you're holding?" said the woman leaning on the doorstep of her room with one eyebrow raised. She was obviously watching him for a while.

"No. It was open, so I gave it a quick look and then I started thinking about the newly made threats to our lives."

"I noticed that, I was standing there for a couple of minutes and you didn't give any life signs so I decided to check up on you." she laughed briefly, and then continued. "The book is about, as the title sais, a girl who is misbehaving her whole life and getting in and out of trouble because of her life style. She is never satisfied with what she has and she is always looking for more, using whatever it takes and whoever it takes to get what she wants..."

She sat next to him, which caused a chill to go down his back.

"So you are getting ideas from her? She must be the ultimate misbehaver when she got a book written in her honor, you could probably learn something from a more experienced colleague."

"...and a man hopelessly in love with her. She returns to him every once in a while and he always takes her back, because to him she is The Wo...sorry, The Bad Girl. Getting any ideas from him?"

"Don't be absurd. From a man who dedicated his whole life to sentimental slavery? I'd rather move in with Mycroft and you know what that means. But maybe we should give this book to John as a gift; he would know how to appreciate it."

"Oh I'm sure about that. How do you think he would react if he got it with the dedication: I thought you might enjoy it? Kisses from The Woman to Hamish."

They laughed so hard that Sherlock's eyes filled with tears. He usually didn't find other people besides John hilarious. It felt nice, familiar in a way, but also terrifying.

The moment they stopped laughing they looked at each other gently with small smiles, enjoying the situation. But as soon as they realized that they were enjoying themselves too much, their professional, uninterested masks came in place. And after that, a flash of the danger they were in made them both seem anxious and concerned.

"What are we going to do, Sherlock?" He swallowed. It was the first time she called him by his first name. He knew she was honestly scared when she forgot her flirtatious way of speaking to him.

"I need to think. It might be strange to ask but could you not talk to me at all for the next couple of hours?"

"If it helps, I'm sure I'll manage with great effort."

"Good. Oh, and, do you have any cigarettes?"

She smiled. "Top drawer, night stand."

Irene drank her tea, then she paced around nervously; after that she read the book but then threw it on the night stand when she couldn't focus anymore. In the end, she fell asleep hugging her pillow. During all this time, Sherlock didn't make a move. He sat motionless, smoking cigarette after cigarette, looking in the distance through the window.

She woke up coughing. She half covered her eyes with her arm to shield herself from the sun coming through the windows and the thick smoke that filled up the room. Her eyes caught sight of Sherlock sitting on top of a bunch of pillows, his shirt's sleeves rolled up, his fingers forming a triangle. His silhouette was barely visible to her just awoken eyes, bothered by the smoke. He looked at her, noticing that her breathing pattern changed.

"You're awake."

"Yes. Did I sleep long?" She straightened up in her bed, rubbing her eyes. "And did you light a fire in here? It seems the oxygen vanished a long time ago."

"Only for a few hours. I needed to think." He showed to the empty cigarette box next to him.

"I just opened it the other day, it was almost full! Did you stop smoking at all while I slept?"

"As I said, I needed to think. Besides, I'm on holiday from John, the smoking policeman."

"You know he does it for your own good."

He said nothing. He knew.

"So, did your prospective lung cancer pay off? Did you think of a way to get us out of this bloody mess?"

"We'll see. You did some thinking too, while you were asleep. Judging by what you were mumbling in your sleep, I wouldn't like to be in Moriarty's place."

She smiled. She liked how naturally he behaved to her. He probably felt free to do so, because she already showed her sentiment a long time ago, so he knew she wasn't faking anything to manipulate him. Whatever the reason might be, she hoped it will last.

"Breakfast?"

"I perceive a change in your approach."

"I'm just testing if you're paying attention. I'll fix us something up in the kitchen."

As it turns out, The Woman was a woman of many talents, among which was cooking. The smell coming from the kitchen awoke even the appetite of the never eating detective.

"Hungry? No, don't answer. Just sit and eat."

And so they ate. It's funny how one could forget he is hungry when a maniacal criminal is threatening him.

"So, what did you think of?" said Irene with her mouth half fool.

"I have a theory. If he wanted anyone of us dead at any time so far, he could have killed has whenever he wanted. He knew where you were before I did, but he made you part of the game when I found you, which means it's about me, not you."

"Egocentric."

"But he doesn't want me dead. He wants to play with the sentiment he imagines I have for you using the sentiment he knows you have for me."

"And there is the answer why Moriarty's nickname for you will stay permanent; you're the perfect gentleman."

"We need to hide you somewhere; you should leave the country if possible, and then I'll deal with him."

"You really are the perfect gentleman. But it's out of the question."

"Why? An ex dominatrix doesn't run away when facing danger? Or you have developed loyalty so you want to watch my back?"

"Darling, I always want to watch your back. And if nothing else, I owe you my life. I'm willing to pay that debt back by assisting you. After all, every magician needs a pretty assistant."

"It will be dangerous, you know."

"In that case, I'll bring the riding crop."

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><p>Do you think Sherlock&amp;Irene are in character enough? Thank you for the reviews, again, and please continue reviewing, it makes me happy to see you're reading the story :)<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

Hello :) Sorry, this chapter is a short one, it is an introduction in the following events, everything will be explained in the next chapters :)

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><p>"He is testing us" said Sherlock. "If he wanted us dead, we would be dead, but instead, we are a pair of white lab rats looking for an exit from a maze."<p>

"I'm usually the one confining people; I'm not sure how I feel about the other way around." she observed him nervously pacing around her living room with his hands on his back.

"The first thing we need to do is find Moriarty and find out what he plans to do with us if he doesn't kill us. I'll pull some official and you could pull the under the table strings that you have as I am sure." He stopped for a bit, turning towards her with what might be called a concerned expression. "Once again I must insist that we put you somewhere safe until this is finished."

"You are rather boring when you repeat yourself" she rolled her eyes. "But you are also very sweet when you worry for me like that, it shows emotions."

"I thought so, asking again was a formality. We meet here again, in the evening latest." he was putting his scarf on and heading towards the door.

"I'll be in touch. Good luck, Mr. Holmes." She leaned forward and gave him a small peck on the cheek. Then she conveniently noticed that he had a lipstick mark, so she wiped it away with her long, thin finger. He had a blank expression on his face, but she knew he didn't mind at all; on the contrary.

After closing the door behind him, Irene glimpsed at the 'to do list' he left on the table for her. She memorized the points to which she agreed, and then threw the paper in the garbage can. Of course he was smart, she taught, but she was too, and she had an agenda of her own.

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><p>Sherlock wasn't any more confident in their cooperation then she was, so he phoned an ex college friend of Mycroft's to whom he had one important similarity: They both loved to keep things from Mycroft, for competitive reasons, or just to mess with him. To Sherlock's luck, this man was by chance the right hand of the Dutch prime minister. And by even luckier chance, he owed Sherlock a favor. Before dialing the number, Sherlock smiled when he remembered the nature of this favor.<p>

Unknown to most people, Mr. Van Der Hoek had mild, kleptomaniac symptoms when he was extremely nervous, on occasions such as a formal visit to the English queen. By accident he put the wrong memory stick in his pocket which caused an alarm on the court, which was successfully and discretely put out by Sherlock who never gave away what happened, just to get on Mycroft's nerves. Before the man even said Hello, Sherlock began speaking in his typically fast manner:

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes speaking. Remember me? No need to reply, I'm sure you do. I'm in town and I need a favor. Could we meet, as soon as possible? And one more thing; could you send a very capable police officer of yours to follow my...girlfriend around? She tends to get into trouble and she won't let me help her. But it needs to be discrete...or she will punish me if she realizes."

The other man laughed to Sherlock's reality based joke and agreed to meeting with him and give him whatever he needed, expressing his eternal gratitude again.

The timing was perfect. A man approached Sherlock minutes before Irene came out of the building and started unlocking her bicycle. If Sherlock didn't know it was her, he would have taken a moment to recognize her: she wore dark jeans, flat over the knee boots, a leather jacket and an over the shoulder bag. Her hair was up in a ponytail and her makeup was more natural than the one she normally had on. Upon seeing her biking, no one would recognize her as a Madame of the gentlemen's club, or as a dominatrix; she was just one of the tourists. She took a quick look around before getting on her bike which Sherlock of course expected, so he positioned himself out of her viewing range. Sherlock said to the officer in civilian clothes:

"Don't lose her. And keep me posted on everything she does. I am a...very jealous person?"

The officer didn't notice Sherlock's small smile about the stupid explanation he gave, so he got up on his own bike and followed Irene through the crowd. Since that was taken care of, it was time for the consulting detective to get on with his plans.

He needed to accelerate the course of events in order to get ahead of Moriarty. First thing he needed to do was find Moriarty and set up all the participants and additions to the play he had in mind. Lestrade would come in handy now, but there were many inspectors to Mr. Van Der Hoek as there were many Lestrade like ones to Mycroft. The situation was too out of control for Sherlock's taste already, so he at least needed to control the parameters that he could. With a distracted expression he came into the black BMW that stopped right next to him.

Meanwhile, The Biking Woman had other plans. She trusted Sherlock's judgment, especially since Karachi, but she was not willing to play the damsel in distress for him too often; it might become a habit. She knew the part of his plan he didn't expose to her included her being put on a safe place, with or without her consent while 'the boys' play the game. She was also aware that she would never let him take the bullet for her, so she needed to keep him safe as well. Tough one, she taught while wrinkles formed on her brow from worrying.

She chained her bike next to a fence and stood next to it, pretending to type a text. A blond teenage boy approached her:

"I got your text. He is waiting for you downstairs."

Sherlock had his homeless network and she had her small gang network which was normally busy with pin pocketing tourists.

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><p>After a whole day of plotting schemes, they met again at Irene's apartment in the evening as it was planned. Both of them were so confident that they have a couple of surprises up their sleeves prepared for the other one.<p>

Sherlock opened the front door to discover that something smelled delicious. It was evident she came in before him. Irene walked out of the kitchen, wearing a strapless red dress that made even Sherlock's heart jump a bit, although she stood to far to notice his pulse elevating. On the other hand, she was just close enough to catch his fast observation of her high heels and the necklace that elegantly pointed her neck out. Her hair was up and her lips were shining red. Walking a few steps towards him, she mischievously said:

"Tomorrow evening we might die. That makes tonight the end of the world, the very last night. You will have dinner with me."


	7. Chapter 7

Hello! I decided to split this part in half, so here's the first one, I hope you'll like it! ;)

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><p>The rational part of Sherlock's brain was getting offended by Irene's authoritative tone, but the irrational, emotional one was trying to minimize the feeling of panic that was flooding him completely. He felt cornered; he was in her apartment, with her food and with that dress which was not a battle dress, but it seemed threatening enough to him at the moment.<p>

"Are you just going to stand there? I promise I don't bite. Not yet, at least."

The game was certainly on, Sherlock thought. And he was not giving up easily. He calculated his odds in a matter of seconds; she had sentiment for him, a sentiment he could use against her again with an almost certainty to succeed in dominating the situation. Why his mind chose this exact word, he wondered. On the other hand, she had more experience, he was sure she would use heavy artillery to get what she wanted and... John's voice was there again: "And, you know you like her Sherlock. You are a human being. Human beings have feelings."

"Shut up, John." He murmured.

"Sorry?" The Woman laughed.

"Nothing. Well, what's on the menu tonight?"

She looked at him suspiciously. It was expected that he puts up quite a fight, but he stood there looking at her in a relaxed, self certain manner with a barely visible smirk. Those made her feel uneasy. Perhaps that was his point, she thought; there can't be two alphas in a situation, so he might be trying to get on top. Wouldn't that be nice, it went through her head. This man was complicated, but then again, that was rather the point.

"I made chicken in orange and ginger sauce, with some salads. Or would you like to skip that and proceed to the desert immediately?"

"You know what? I'm starving. Let's eat all the courses. Slowly." He teased her.

Irene Adler was always sure in one thing, and that was – Sherlock Holmes was not easy. She was sure in another thing as well – she never gave up.

They sat at the table and started eating the dinner Irene made. It was delicious and Sherlock even complimented her cooking. She was starting to get very paranoid because of this relaxed attitude he had. Somewhere in the middle of the chicken and her retelling him the story of how she once caused the end of a marriage of a very well known aristocrat (it was a very juicystory), his face got a serious expression.

"Let's talk business. What have you got?"

He knew how to destroy a girl's dream, she thought while momentarily putting her own heartless mask on. He had a lot of practice on that poor girl from the morgue during the years, so she heard.

"I went to see a man today. He is one of the most important clients of the business I have going on here. His line of work is not very legal, but his methods are quite efficient. He heard Jim dear was in town, these sort of people tend to be informed of the ones similar to them. As it turns out, Jim doesn't have an intention on hiding from us. He rented a house in..."

"Rokin street, I know." He smiled. "Continue."

"He is willing to provide us with all the fire power we need, in case your sociopathic skills don't impress our beloved psychopath enough. But, he requests a personal favor for his trouble."

This made Sherlock uneasy. What did this man want from Irene? He was silent for a moment too long, so she laughed:

"Oh, don't be jealous! He doesn't want anything from me; he wants you to sort out some family curse drama when all of this is done."

Sherlock tried to hide the feeling of relief he felt and despised so much.

"And the rest?" he asked as uninterested as one could possibly be.

"The man that serves Moriarty as an assistant here is currently tied up by one of my most capable girls. He will talk, I assure you. It's your turn now, Mr. Holmes."

"I have as well secured us getting alive out of the place, and a man willing to put Moriarty behind bars. It doesn't solve our problems one bit, but if we need time bought, we will have it. In the end, I count on our bargaining abilities to get us out of this stupid mess."

"Your self-confidence just went up the stairs, climbed up the roof and is currently heading towards the center of the galaxy. You know, where the sun and the other planets are. Don't get me wrong, I'm quite a fan of danger and improvisation, but do you really think we can rely on that to keep us alive?"

Sherlock took a deep breathe. He knew all along Jim wasn't interested in having either one of them dead. Since that night on the pool, his intentions were quite clear. He wanted to burn the heart out of Sherlock, not kill him; killing him was too easy, he wanted to prove to Sherlock that he was a human being, a mortal with feelings. He wanted Sherlock to act like a knight in a shining armor for Irene, to sacrifice himself for her and in that way, to show that he was an unworthy opponent for Moriarty. What could he tell her now, how to explain to her that she was the key to the puzzle without expressing the feelings John's voice was talking about again. He needed to see someone about this voice, he sometimes thought. Once more, he decided he could handle it.

"I can handle it" he said, leaning back in his chair. He wasn't sure he even convinced himself with that, let alone her.

"I'm distracting you." she said, after a pause. "You will never admit it, I will always try to make you do it, but it is a fact you must be aware of. You will get us both killed if your mind is not focused on winning this chess game. And in order to win, you must be willing to sacrifice the queen. What if he puts a gun in your hand tomorrow, in a year or someday and sais to you, that the only way to survive is to put a bullet in my head. Or would you die refusing?"

"What would you do in such a situation Mrs. Adler? The game was offered to both of us and you could easily turn out to be the one in the deciding position."

"Does it matter? She leaned forward."We both know the bullets would be fake since there would be a chance that one of us would have a heroic impulse and shoot him, unable to make such a decision."

"Nice avoiding of the answer."

"Thank you. Wine?"

"I don't drink when I think. And no, it wasn't intended as a rhyme."

"I'm glad the distraction doesn't affect your sense of humor." She said as she finished her second glass of wine.

"You shouldn't drink so much while the game is on, it could cloud your judgment."

"Oh, but I'm not playing anymore."

"Is that a threat?"

"More of a promise."

She got on her feet and walked towards him around the table. He felt his back gluing to the chair.

"Get up." She said, lifting one eyebrow.

"Why?"

"I want to show you something. Don't look at me so terrified, I won't hurt you."

He rolled his eyes and got up, so he now stood dangerously close to her. It became a real staring contest which she lost by looking down, after which she reestablished eye contact with a small smile.

"Come." And she took him by the hand, guiding him towards the living room. Her hand was so small against his that he felt like he could hurt her if he squeezed her hard. Of course, he would never do such a thing to this warm, gentle hand whose touch made him feel so awkwardly pleasant. This was not bad, he thought. He had no idea what she has planned out for him later on, she thought. She squeezed his hand a bit harder before letting go, and instructed him:

"Sit here and wait for me just for a second, I'll be right back. And please, help yourself with the wine, it is the end of the world, you know."

Sherlock decided to take that advice since he expected her to come back from her bedroom carrying a whip or something suitable. Focus, he told himself. So what if she is nice, and pleasant and well, perhaps even pretty in a physical way. But all of that was a lame excuse for him to feel so restless. Fortunately for him, she came back carrying the photo of her teenager self he saw in her bedroom the evening before.

"You seem relieved. I didn't want to scare you off with my toys right away."

"I'm not scared that easily." he said, in his usual, uninterested manner.

"Of criminals, monsters and guns you're not. Of me, I'm not so convinced."

She sat on the couch next to him and handed him the photo.

"I know you've seen it yesterday and that you were simply dying to know something about it, so I decided to feed your curiosity since we're just chatting anyway. As you've already deduced it is my mother and I. This was taken when I was seventeen. "

"The change is evident. How did this girl become a dominatrix?"

"One thing at a time." She looked playfully at him.

"You don't want to tell me the story at all right now. You just wanted to expose something about yourself that wasn't exposing anything new at all, so that I would feel more comfortable, as if it was about you, not me."

"Nice deduction. You'll hear the story another time; I'm not in a talking mood right now."

"What mood are you in, then?"

"I'd like to dance."

"Feel free to, but don't expect me to join you."

"You don't dance, you don't drink...what do you do for fun?"

"I solve crimes."

"Would you like me to play dead in that case?"

"Only if you're convincing, I'm a detective you see."

"Really? Have I ever told you that I love detective stories...and detectives?"

"I would have never guessed."

She smiled, pressing a button on the CD player on the shelf next to her, pulling him up on his feet so they stood against each other once again. She wrapped her hands around his neck, looking in his eyes intensely, shifting her weight from one leg to the other.

"Just follow the rhythm." She whispered into his ear. The song was Fever by Peggy Lee.

This moment was a moment of a great inner struggle for Sherlock. Could he just give in and enjoy it? Should he? It was the end of the world as she said. No it wasn't; of course it wasn't, nothing will end tomorrow, except perhaps their lives. He never thought about dying much. He was close to it, once or twice when he overdosed in the period when he was an active user, but he wasn't one of those people that feared death. But now that he thought of it, it would be a shame if he never saw her again. Perhaps even more than a shame, it would really bother him. So he shyly put his hands around her waist, barely touching her. She smiled, without breaking eye contact.

"So, what now?" she asked, gently smiling.

"Now we survive any way we can."

She felt his hands holding her more tightly now, so she took a deep breath. The moon over Amsterdam was full; it was a very beautiful evening. Peggy Lee sang: "You give me fever..." and Irene Adler finally gently pressed her lips on the lips of Sherlock Holmes, the up to that moment apparently uninterested consulting detective.

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><p>So, what did you think? :) Please review, I feel so happy when I see a new review, it's very motivating! :)<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

The kiss probably lasted only a few seconds, but in Sherlock's mind the time stopped completely. Most people don't know that he was kissed before, with or without his consent. Quite a number of times he was surprised with that act of affection from some uninteresting women who found him attractive. Boring. Only a couple of times he had consented to this experiment out of scientific reasons, just to investigate what's all the fuss about. But only this one time he felt the unmistakable feeling in his stomach while her thin fingers worked their way up his neck to the curls of his hair.

She moved away just a bit, her arms still around his neck, looking at his mouth with dreamy eyes.

"Pity. I hoped I was the first."

"Who sais you are not?"

"Oh please, we all have our areas of expertise."

They stood there, moving in the rhythm of the song which was long over and she kissed him again, and again. He decided it would be impolite not to return the favor; it seemed to mean a lot to her. 'Oh just shut up', said his own voice in the back of his head; his chain of thoughts was to unrealistic that he personally had to interfere. At first it felt as if they were walking on clouds, but at a certain moment, the feeling changed. He felt hungry...hungry of her. The dinner métaphore didn't seem inappropriate at the moment. As skilful as she was, she felt the change in his feelings even before he expressed it, so she pulled herself closer to him, kissing him more passionately. Restoring inner balance before irrecoverably crossing the line which the overcoming force he felt pushed him over, he stepped back from her.

For a brief moment she was hugging the air, so she looked at him in an irritated way, but she regained control over herself quickly, and put on the most flirtatious smile she had on her repertoire.

"You're trying to make me beg? It goes the other way around...at least twice." She said mischievously.

"Your appetites seemed to have grown since the last time we had this conversation." He said, reclaiming his usual serenity.

"It's called adapting to the situation. And just for the record, I could make you beg, you know."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

She briefly laughed, and then she struck back.

"I desire nothing more than a chance to prove my claim. It is you who denies me the pleasure of victory without any prove...to think that people consider you objective in your claims."

He wanted to make a comment about already proving his case by proving her sentiment towards him; but that would only give her ammunition to fire his minutes ago proven sentiment right back at him.

"Prove what? That you could beat me with a riding crop? I admit defeat." He said sarcastically.

"I had another kind of torture in mind but I'll let you come to me. Mark my words Sherlock Holmes; you will be the one coming after me."

"That is my line of duty, if you break any law."

"Coward."

"Sore loser."

One wouldn't expect to see two extremely intelligent adults sitting on opposite sides of a room sulking, looking at the other when he wasn't looking. In fact, for a detective and a dead sex worker, they behaved absolutely childish.

"This is nonsense. We should be fighting Moriarty, not fighting with each other." Said Irene, proving herself as the more mature one.

"I'm not fighting." Sherlock replied while carefully studying the carpet.

If she only hadn't promised him that he will make the next move, if it wasn't her precious game at stake, she would have made him think twice before behaving so childishly towards her...but she was as stubborn as he was, which was the beauty of it all. Or better said, the annoyance of it. The only way to make him act was to make him feel curious. So she stood up, walked to his chair and unzipped her dress which slid to the floor. With a smirk and without a word, she marched to her room.

He remained in hi place, motionless. It was so obvious she was trying to lure him to follow her. But he wouldn't buy it. Of course he wouldn't fall for it; it was a cheap, obvious trick. He was just fine on his own, sitting here, thinking. Why would he need her company? No reason at all.

After more than an hour spent in his mind palace, Sherlock couldn't pretend he wasn't nervous any longer. He went through his plan many times, and then he checked if he still knew the periodic system by heart, after that he classified firearms of German origin chronologically since the Second World War to the present day. When all of that couldn't keep his mind of The Woman, he tried to remember all of John's girlfriends since the two of them met, the 418 types of Tea which could be found in Britain, and as the final weapon against loosing focus, the famous 243 types of tobacco ash. When nothing of the mentioned helped, he was forced to admit to himself he was curious; what was she doing in the other room? Why didn't she come back for over an hour? Was she asleep? Was she angry? And the question he hated most of them all – Was she wondering what he was doing too?

From that moment on, he needed only half an hour to actually get up and go look for her. He approached her bedroom door. Somehow, this time he felt obligated to knock. Damn her, she thought. He was starting to behave polite because of her, she was bad influence. He knocked briefly, but there was no reply. She couldn't have gotten anywhere besides jumping out of the window. A wave of honest concern flooded him, so he decided to just come in. When he opened the door, he discovered the room was completely empty. Before he could figure out what was going on, a pair of quick, dexterous hands put a ribbon over his eyes. His natural impulse was to take it off immediately, but Irene's voice whispered a:

"Shhhh, don't." into his ear.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but he felt a finger on his lips instructing him not to. He sensed her moving around him and she was now standing in front of him.

He couldn't resist, so he started talking:

"What's the meaning of this?"

"A compromise."

He knew what smirk she had on her face, although he didn't see it.

She took him by the hand and after a few paces she pushed him on the bed. Before he could react, he felt handcuffs closing in on his wrists. She was really good at this, he thought. When his hands were securely tied, she removed the blindfold.

He was stunned by how the woman leaning over him looked. He never appreciated attractiveness in women very much, but he had to admit that she was inventing new levels of attractiveness in every new encounter he had with her. Since she slipped out of her dress, she dressed into a red corset. On her hands she wore black, fingerless lace gloves. Her lips were as red as always and her curly hair was free on her shoulders. On her left thigh was a garter in the shape of a red bow. She observed him looking at it and she laughed.

"It is a symbol of what a true gift I am for you."

He couldn't help but smile back at her and laugh to this rather unusual situation he had gotten himself into. He leaned his head backwards to look at his hands that were comfortably but firmly tied up with black furry handcuffs.

"What now?" he asked. He felt less nervous now then when she made him dance. Perhaps that is the dominatrix effect of being tied up, he thought, making a mental note to investigate that at some point.

She leaned in and kissed him. And this time, he kissed her back enthusiastically.

She stopped for a second, laughing at his disappointed expression.

He rolled his eyes:

"What now? And don't look so victorious, I would escape if I could."

"You know what? I find that extremely hard to believe."

So she kissed him again. Here actions could be best described as full of sincere emotions. She wasn't too gentle on him, but she didn't take the next step either. It was like she was trying to absorb as much of him as possible, like it was the first and last time she was with him, and she didn't want to spoil anything.

His action could be best described as tied up. At the beginning, he felt abnormally frustrated that he was deprived of any control, but then he somehow recognized what she felt and nothing mattered anymore. It was nice, this not thinking sometimes this way, he thought. Not boring at all. It could be compared to some of his most interesting cases. He had to laugh to himself; he was behaving like a teenage boy, without control, reason, purpose. Actually, he was behaving like John. John must never know anything of this, or Sherlock will be forced to live in a bunker underground to avoid the teasing. And then he stopped thinking again.

He lost track of time; it felt as if eternity had passed, but it could have easily been only ten minutes. All of a sudden she moved away and then he felt the blindfold on his face once again.

"Oh come on. Why?" he asked in a displeased manner.

"It's part of the game. Be patient." She said in a playful but commanding way.

Sherlock wasn't amused. He heard her wondering around the room, and when she finally took the blindfold off, she was fully dressed and she smiled at him, but her eyes looked sad.

He felt a pinch in his arm and saw a needle piercing his skin. He looked at her in panic, but she continued smiling at him in a sad way.

"It's been a pleasure. More than you know. But I owe you my life and it is time for me to take the risk of saving you this time. I hope this isn't a final goodbye, but if it is...well, I was never good at them."

She kissed him once more gently as everything started to blur away from the effects of the drug. His last rational thought was the comprehension of her behavior in the last hour and the desperation that was caused by it.

* * *

><p>Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He felt like he had slept for a very long time, and his head still felt very heavy. The light was too strong, he taught. John must have opened the curtains as a subtle sign for him to stand up. He decided to ignore this invasion to his lazy sleep routine so he covered his head with a pillow and rotated himself to a more comfortable position. And that's when he remembered.<p>

* * *

><p>Is it still in character enough? Please review :)<p> 


	9. Chapter 9

The shock of realizing his, but even more of realizing Irene's current position made him feel almost paralyzed. There was nothing he hated more than sub coming to his feelings, being weak; it made him feel common and vulnerable. But he wouldn't be the world's only consulting detective if he didn't have the ability to stay cool under pressure; his analytical mind assessed his physical condition as good to go, the effects of the drug have almost passed, at least while he was in lying position.

He looked at the clock on the wall opposite to the bed, it showed four o' clock in the afternoon; he had been out for too long. This meant he only had about six hours to find Irene before Moriarty's deadline expires, and readjust his plan to the newest developments of the situation.

The first thing he needed to do was to get his hands out of the handcuffs which held him chained to the bed. It took him exactly 2.5s to inspect the handcuffs and to form a strategy for his release. The cuffs were Smith & Wesson, from the 'Special Midnight' collection; they were furry on the outside, but it didn't reduce the firmness in which they held his wrists.

A small smile appeared on his face when he perceived the lack of thoroughness in his capture; she was obviously so overwhelmed with her leaving him there that she forgot to relieve him of his watch. It was a mistake which a professional in binding people, such as herself would never make in normal circumstances.

With his right arm he removed his wrist watch. He inserted the pin of the bracelet in the key hole of the cuffs; he tried different angles with the lock, pulling it back and pushing down. Finally, he twisted the pin and the lock opened with a small click. He smiled in relieve while repeating the procedure on his other wrist.

Euphoric about his release he got up to quickly for someone who was drugged not so long ago; his knees bent and he collapsed to the floor. He was often classified as non-human because of his behavior and personality, but his body was still one hundred percent human. After some minutes, he gathered his strength, and leaning on the bed, he managed to get up.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, The Woman was sitting in a café at the other side of town. She wore a little black dress, matched with a pearl necklace; her eyes were covered by a pair of big sunglasses. To a stranger, she would look like a movie star from the golden era of Hollywood. Someone as observant as Sherlock Holmes would notice a small bump on her right thigh where she concealed a knife, her purse stretched in a strange angle, as if she there was a gun inside and the barely visible tear mark that broke the pattern of the blush on her cheek. Luckily for her, Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be found at the moment, so her cover remained flawless.<p>

Minutes after, a very handsome blonde man walked into the café and approached Irene's table. Many women in the café turned towards him but she remained motionless, staring through the window.

"May I enjoy your company for a moment?" he said.

She said nothing, making just a slight movement with her head o instruct him to sit opposite of her.

"I organized what you've requested. My men will be posted around you rendezvous place, waiting for your signal. My plane will be on standby to take you, and/or your detective companion out of the country."

She turned towards him, expressionless. "Thank you, Martin."

"You're welcome. I would never refuse to help an old friend such as you. But, why is he not with you now, this Sherlock Holmes, wasn't that his name?"

"I left him out cold." She tried to smile, but she just couldn't do it, so she quickly transformed her half smile into the mask she wore seconds ago.

"You care. That's new. I'll be a gentleman, so I'll stop asking questions now."

This time she succeeded in smiling a bit, with a small wave of gratitude. "I've told him about you, that you'll be on hand. I just hope he won't be. And he will solve you little family case when this is all over, as we agreed."

The Dutch man smiled: "I will be eternally grateful if he would do so. I know it is funny, a citizen of the world and a successful businessman such as myself having such a trivial problem, but I would like to have the business sorted out."

She stood up and he followed her lead. He took her hand and touched in gently with his lips, while looking at the dark glass of her sunglasses with no confirmation weather she was looking him back.

"I hope your plan will work, so that I could have the pleasure of seeing you again." And he bowed slightly towards her.

She took a deep breath. "You know what? I hope so too."

* * *

><p>Once Sherlock was on his feet, he started going through Irene's apartment as a clue to where she might have went. He recalled her mentioning some man with whom she met the other day. After half an hour of searching and making quite a mess of her apartment, he concluded that the man could only be Martin Verdun, judging by her e-mail correspondence with him. The e-mails seemed semi-personal and semi professional which once again caused a small jealous reaction in Sherlock's usually non disturbed mind. He found an address and then he headed for the door, stopping only to put a gun he acquired from his Dutch friend yesterday into his pocket; it could come in handy.<p>

Desperate times call for approved methods, so he took a cab instead of biking to the address he found in Irene's computer. The address was in the most urban part of the city, so Sherlock assumed Irene's friend was applying the 'hiding in the open strategy'. He presumed that this man was hiding since she said he was in the same line of work as Moriarty. He studied the people passing by. Tourist, tourist, pick pocketing tourist, lawyer, prostitute, hairdresser and a teenage boy who seemed like he was just hanging around, although he was somehow to calm. Sherlock approached him, and started in his most confused touristic voice:

"Excuse me, I'm on vacation here. I heard of a café somewhere around, owned by a Mr. Martin, do you know where I could find it?"

The boy raised both of his eyebrows in suspicion, but then he smiled in ca conspiratorlly manner.

"Follow me." He said, showing in the direction of a wooden door probably leading to some kind of basement facility.

Sherlock's fingertips gently touched the pocket of his coat, just for assurance as he followed the boy through the door.

He was surprised with the luxury of the place he found himself in. It reminded him of pubs back in England, just with more expensive furniture. A voice from behind him interrupted his observing the location:

"You must be Sherlock. Irene said you might drop by."

Sherlock turned around. With a quick glance of the man he deduced that he was in his late thirties, that he studied in England, that he used to do boxing but not anymore since his nose was broken the second, no, third time. He was obviously a rich man who spent his weekends on a boat with a dog as a stress reliever since he was a very successful arms dealer during the week.

"And you must be Martin." Sherlock shook the hand which the man offered and the two of them sat down.

"You are looking for Irene Adler." Said the blond man, cutting to the chase.

"Yes." Was the best reply Sherlock could think of.

"She said you might come. She hoped you wouldn't but she said 'if he comes, give him whatever he asks for'."

"Tell me where I can find her then?"

"Anything except that." He smiled vaguely, showing he was uncomfortable with the situation.

Sherlock studied his facial expression. He realized that this man, whatever his moral believes or disbelieves usually are, was not playing a game; he was being a true friend to Irene. That wasn't convenient for Sherlock, since true loyalty was much harder to bypass then given money of business treaty.

"You said she told you to give me whatever I ask for. What do you poses that may be of use to me?" asked the detective.

"Money, weapons, men, a new identity, a ticket to get out of the country...the stuff that is usually appreciated in situations like this one."

"Why are you doing this for her?"

"She also said that subtle signs of jealousy slip away from you sometimes." He smiled when he saw Sherlock's scowling face. "I'm joking. I've met Irene a decade ago, when we were both beginners in the professions we later specialized on. What we had in common was a thirst for power and climbing the social ladder, but also a sense of humor that usually lacks with rich, boring people. So we became friends. Just friends." He added to tease Sherlock again. "She said you'd be quite eager to hear details about her past from me, but she advised me to keep them to myself until you help me with that small case I have for you, which can of course wait for better times."

"She did her homework, obviously." Said Sherlock, trying to detain the bitterness in his voice.

"Doesn't she always?"

* * *

><p>The Woman, looking like a film diva, got out of a cab on the periphery of Amsterdam. She took a deep breath and then she readjusted her dress to cover the knife bump. Steep, marble stairs surrounded by trees led up to a house barely visible from the street. She pressed the doorknob slowly, postponing the moment of entering the house as much as possible. The loathed, cheerful voice came from inside the house:<p>

"Do come in dear."

Resisting the urge to run as fast as she could in the other direction, she passed through the door.

"Good girl. First door to your left."

Irene Adler found Jim Moriarty sitting on a sofa in the very same position in which Sherlock often sat; with his fingers forming a triangle. It is strange how much in common these two men had, apart from them being completely different.

She sat on the other sofa, right across him.

"I was expecting both of you, fighting over who gets to die for the sake of the other one. Pathetic. He let you play the victim? I should teach him some manners." He said ecstatically.

"I expect him later on, but I hope you don't mind me popping in a bit early?"

"You are so common. I am so very disappointed. But then again, I prefer to be disappointed in you. If he had disappointed me, I'd have to blow up a town square to feel better."

Moriarty studied her, the stiffness of her arms, and the tension in her neck.

"Look at you, what a girly girl you actually are. Prepared to die for detective charming. Would he do the same for you? How selfish he is. How cruel. How little he cares about you, just a case in his row, just another prove of the greatness of his intellect. Will he shed a tear over your dead body? Or will he run along, chasing me, not minding the collateral damage?" he was provoking her to break down and he was on a good path in succeeding.

"Come on little human being, cry for me. Tell me you made a mistake, tell me that I can have his head over my mantelpiece and I'll let you go to live happily ever after. Don't be silly. Oh, but what's that? An emotion! Oh how lovely, I love to see emotions since I never had the inconvenience of experiencing them myself. They say I'm a psychopath." He whispered the last sentence.

Irene was getting dangerously close to her boiling point. She knew Martin had people somewhere nearby on shooting positions, ready to be her backup. She knew Jim had people even closer, ready to put a bullet between her eyes. She knew she needed Moriarty close enough to finish him once and for all, cost what it costs. She didn't know anymore, she was starting to doubt it, the small worm Moriarty successfully planted in her mind – would Sherlock really risk his life for her? Was he really worthy of the risk she was taking?

"So, you're here to kill me. How predictable. You're boring. I want Sherlock!" he cried out."Kill me then! I can't stand this boredom, this commonness!" he jumped on his feet and ran towards her.

He saw a flash of cold decisiveness in her eyes, which made it clear to him that she wouldn't hesitate for a second. His expression changed from 'crying child' to an acknowledging, proud parent's expression.

"Gooooood, Ms. Adler. You have it in you after all. But since you are a clever woman, you know that you won't walk through that door alive with my blood on your blade."

"I'm aware of that possibility."

"You undisappointed me, that is so nice and happy. The sun is shining in my evil backyard again. But, let's cut to the chase. Love for Sherlock or no love for Sherlock, no one wants to die. Everybody wants to stay alive. So, I have for you a win-win offer you cannot refuse."

"What are you talking about?" said Irene suspiciously, still tense, ready to jump and attack.

"The best option for you would be both of you walking out of here alive. That seems highly improbable at the moment, but, we'll get there. You're just a meaningless, dull pawn on my board; it's him that I want. But I don't want him dead...yet. I owe him a fall." His mad eyes stared into the empty space and Irene shivered a bit from the effect of his last words.

"So, Ireeeeeene, the only use I could have of keeping you alive would be to mess with him. But, how can I mess with him when you two are such lovebirds?"

"What do you want?" asked Irene, slightly loosing temper again.

"You will leave him. Break his heart. You will make him doubt himself completely; make him as miserable as he always was. Light a flame in his heart to start burning it slowly...burning the heart out of him. Could you do that? For me, Ms Adler? Could you wait right here for him and convince him what a fool he had been, to make him realize emotions aren't really his playground? If you can, you both walk out. You're so much more useful to me alive, your life hurting him every day. What's it going to be? Choose." He said, his face almost touching hers with a terrifying grimace.

Irene understood what Moriarty wanted from her, but somehow, the information couldn't get through to her. Break his heart? That meant breaking hers. She was used to break men's hearts, she made an art out of it, but it never meant her own heart being broken in return. The time they've spent together was unreal for her. She didn't feel like that since...a long time ago. She strictly forbid herself to open up to anyone, but he had unlocked her heart with his damn intelligence and pretty eyes, and the sarcastic humor she enjoyed so much. And the fact that he risked his life to save her, how could she do this to him after that, she owed him so much.

But in fact, it was so simple, saving both of their lives but so unnatural. Moriarty wanted to transformer her into The Lady of the Camellias, the woman of few moral values, giving away her happiness as the ultimate sacrifice. He wanted her to play the role she had played so many times ago, flawless, the cruel dominatrix, the skillful seductress, the master heartbreaker. But she never cared before, that's why playing the role was so easy. Could she really do it? Could she break his heart, her own heart? The choice was quite simple, although brutal. She did owe him, that is why she had to do things for his own good, even though he will probably never recognize them as such.

"I accept." She said, expressionless, her eyes looking like deep, empty holes.

"Gooood. I'm leaving now, make yourself comfortable. And remember, I'll be waaatchiiiing." Said Jim, leaving the room, and then passing through the front door.

Irene sat down. She just sat. How foolish of her to believe that she, a former dominatrix, a criminal could have a moment of happiness? No deeds go unpunished, and she has done a lot in her life. What were you thinking; she told herself, why did you get involved in the first place? Because I couldn't help it, she desperately realized.

Sherlock and Martin were sitting in the back seat of a car, driving towards the house with the marble stairs.

"I think we have everything covered, said Martin."Are you sure you want to go in alone?"

Sherlock nodded.

The car parked and Sherlock climbed the stairs, scared of what might await him behind that door.

"Come in, first door to your left."

He took a deep breath of relief upon hearing Irene's voice. She was alive. He found her sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed, one of her arms casually stretched over the back of the sofa; she seemed endlessly relaxed.

"You finally came." She simply said.

He sensed that something was off. She seemed different, as if it was another Irene, not the one she was the last time he saw her. He swallowed, trying to convince himself that he was imagining things.

"Yes. Where is Moriarty?"

"He left." She said, still sitting calm.

"What is going on?"

"I saved our lives."

"How did you manage exactly?"

"I explained him that there was nothing to break apart, since there was nothing there in the first place."

"I don't follow."

"Oh, well, try to." She said, now annoyed. "The magic is gone, Sherlock. I had so much fun leaving you breadcrumbs to find me here, to have an affair to remember, to be able to say 'We'll always have Amsterdam', but now that I was in danger of burning my fingers, I decided it was not worth it. Oh come on, don't give me that look, you didn't really think this was anything serious, didn't you?" she mocked him. "You know most of all people what a dangerous disadvantage sentiment is. Don't be stupid and fall into the very pit you constantly warn people about."

"Is he making you do this? Moriarty?" he asked with a mild touch of panic in his voice. He felt like he was holding the edge of a cliff.

She laughed like an evil cartoon heroine. "Don't be silly. Take my pulse if you don't believe me. You made a wrong judgment trusting me, Sherlock Holmes. But, then again, I don't find that hard to believe. They wouldn't call me The Woman for nothing."

She approached him, kissing his on the cheek. "Goodbye Mr. Holmes."

And she walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock alone. He stood there for a few seconds, with the expression of utter disappointment and hurt on his face. After that, he put his mask back on, determined never to take it off again.

Irene got into one of the car parked in front, ignoring Martin's questions completely. Everything was broken, but as Sherlock told her 'We must survive. Anyway we can."

* * *

><p><strong>Don't hate me for this! :) I promise you a happy ending of the whole story, this is just half of it :)<strong>

**Thank you for reading & please leave me a review, they make me really happy :) **


	10. Chapter 10

The next day, Sherlock flew back to London. He had missed the air, the black cabs, the tea, the criminals and all the people to whom he would never admit it, such as John, Mr. Hudson, Letstrade; perhaps in a very small amount even Molly. He went up the stairs leading to his living room, determined to pretend the past few days never happened. He let out a relieved smile when he saw John sitting in one of the armchairs, reading the morning newspapers.

John stood up to greet the detective with a broad smile on his face:

"Sherlock, hey! How was your trip? Did you solve the case? Mrs. Hudson is feeling much better; she's been asking about you every couple of hours, you know she doesn't trust the people from the mainland." John stopped his cheerful monologue when he saw the strange smile Sherlock had on his face; he may not be a genius, but if there was something John Watson knew, it was Sherlock Holmes. He normally didn't smile to John's reports, he quietly ignored them. But even more strange than that, he was never stiff in such a way; he never put any effort in fooling John or anyone else he felt in a certain manner. He just didn't care enough about social interactions to put himself through such trouble. John knew that Sherlock would never answer to a direct question, so he decided to just play along and see what happens.

They sat in their armchairs since Sherlock refused to have breakfast. Everything was apparently normal, they spoke a bit, John went out shopping, he came back, and he went out again. In the evening, when he returned from an afternoon tea date, he found Sherlock in the same place he had left him. There was something different about him; he didn't seem to be deeply focused as usual, staring in the darkness while he was deep thinking. He seemed blue, playing a sad tune on his violin. John knew Sherlock would never allow him to see this side of his, but he was so deeply consumed with his chain of thoughts that he didn't even hear the doctor coming in. John sat to have a conversation with him, deciding that the probably unsuccessful talk cannot be postponed anymore:

"Ok, what's going on? I know it something, don't insult me or deflect or whatever it is that you usually do to avoid answering my questions. You came back different, sad even, if I may dare to say so. What happened to you there?"

Upon hearing this question, Sherlock got himself back together and he regained his usual uninterested expression. He smiled at John in a mocking manner:

"What gives you that idea? Why would I be sad, you know I don't concern myself with such...human things?"

"My point exactly. But now I see clear signs of humanity all over you. What made them appear? Or who?"

Sherlock's outside rolled his eyes on these ridiculously boring things John was accusing him of. A flashback went through his mind as a reaction to these ridiculously boring accusations: her apartment, the fact that she made him dance, in every sense of the word, the illusion of time stopping, his fear for her life and the final blow, proving her position as the woman who beat him. He wasn't very good in this hiding of emotions, simply because he didn't have enough emotions to practice on. Ending the discussion, at least for the time being, he did what he did best when it came to personal talks; he deflected, changing the subject:

"There is a case I've committed myself to take in Amsterdam. Are you interested in accompanying me?"

John smiled, fully aware of what Sherlock was doing. He decided letting him go for the time being.

"Sure, when do we leave?"

Sherlock smiled back at him, silently grateful for what he knew John was doing. "Tomorrow if it suits you."

* * *

><p>Upon exiting the gate on Schiphol airport, Sherlock saw Martin in the crowd of people waiting. Before their departure from London, Sherlock made a phone call to him:<p>

"My colleague doesn't know anything of our mutual business with Irene Adler; as far as he knows, she is dead or as he prefers to put it 'in a witness protection program in America. I would very much like to keep it that way."

The two Englishmen approached their Dutch client.

"Martin, this is my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson. John, this is our client, Martin Verdun." They shook hands and then proceeded towards Martin's car. The mere sight of the car gave Sherlock another flashback, which made him frown.

When they were comfortably settled in Martin's car, driven by a professional driver, John asked:

"So, what's the nature of the case?"

"It's quite a strange thing; I don't know whether to be ashamed of thinking about it in the first place. My real surname isn't Verdun; it used to be Van Der Buren. Mine is one of the oldest, most influential families in the Netherlands; our family is among the noblest in the country. Anyway, I own quite a large estate in the north of the country; the house is almost castle like. I grew up there, and my whole childhood I heard stories of a mysterious legacy hidden somewhere in the premises. It is my obsession my whole life, but I've been unsuccessful in finding it. I almost let the matter completely go, but then I heard of your arrival in my country, so I knew I had to consult you." He said, with a passionate glow in his eyes.

"A friend of Mycroft's introduced us." Sherlock explained quickly, preventing John from asking.

An hour later, they arrived to the gates of the large estate. This magnificent Iron Gate was already a sufficient proof of what Martin was saying.

"You live in a beautiful place, that's for certain." Said John, referring to the forest surrounding the road they were taking. Between the trees, they could see a part of the house, made of grey stones, with four towers, decorated with marble figures of lions. Martin was right; it could pass as a castle easily.

After Sherlock and John made themselves comfortable in a pair of rooms on the first floor, they descended to meet Martin in the main hall.

"I have to leave now, there is some urgent business I must attend to without any delay, but I'll be back in the evening. If you need anything, just call, but the servants will be on your disposal, so I doubt that you'll have any problems."

'Was Irene this urgent business', asked a small voice in Sherlock's mind? He did he best to suppress it, explaining t himself that even if she was, it was entirely not his business.

"Do you have any clues for us, as a head start?" asked Sherlock, trying to sound as not jealous as possible.

"Everything I ever discovered of the matter is in the library, but feel free to go through everything in the whole house; I would start from the west wing, it's the oldest part of the residence."

The documents confirmed the existence of some kind of treasure, very worthy to the members of this particular family. Legend has it, it was hidden somewhere in the house to be preserved from meddlers and enemy's of their blood line. It should provide them, it was written, wealth and prospers above all others.

"Completely understandable why he would want to have it." John joked.

Sherlock smiled, but then something else caught his attention while he was digging through the content of every drawer in the library. Between some old books, he found a photograph of the very woman he was trying so hard to forget the whole day. She lay on a wooden bench in front of the house they were in right now, looking relaxed and careless, probably on vacation; she wore a white, summer dress, and she smiled broadly to the camera. Sherlock knew that stealing this photo was pointless; if he wanted a photo of hers, he could simply download it from the internet, and he didn't want it at all. But she seemed so natural in this photo, like the Irene he met a few days ago, human, emotional. The inner urge got the best of him, so he quickly put the photo in the inner pocket of his jacket, before John could suspect anything.

* * *

><p>Irene Adler sat in the same café where she met Martin the last time. She was impatiently waiting, so she almost jumped to her feet when he walked through the door.<p>

"Did he return? How is he? Did he say something about me?"

Martin smiled. "Easy girl. I never saw you so jumpy about anything, what's gotten into you?"

Irene told him the whole story of Moriarty and her deceiving Sherlock.

"Irene, I'm sorry. I had no idea. He didn't say anything, he just asked me not to mention you in front of the guy that came with him, John, since he thinks you're dead as the majority of the people in this world." He supportively put his hand on top of hers.

"Its fine, I knew he wouldn't say anything. Just, keep an eye on him for me, will you?"

"As far as I can tell about him so far, the best thing to do is keep him busy, which I've already done. Oh come on, cheer up a bit, where's the tough Irene? Remember that businessman you left tied up naked in his own bedroom, and then his wife found him with a rubber duck in his mouth? Or the supermodel that tattooed your name on her lower back? Snap out of this."

She smiled. "You know what Martin? You're the closest thing to a John a normal person can have."

The search of Martin's castle-house brought Sherlock and John into the vine basement after they discovered a clue in the west wing Martin had pointed them to. Thanks to Sherlock perceiving barely visible pulling marks on the floor in front of a chest, almost erased by the amount of years during which nothing was moved, and John's help in moving it once again, they found a small booklet containing a map. After a few seconds of Sherlock's eye scanning of the map, they ended up in the vine cellar. Once again, John gave a case its final touch by accidently tripping and falling on a vine cupboard, one of the vines being the lever to open a secret compartment behind it. The legacy Martin looked for was a treasure indeed, for it related one of his far ancestors to the royal family. He was not mistaken; his family had a rich legacy, he just didn't know how rich.

"I think I can't thank you enough. It's not about the money; I have plenty of that, but the small satisfaction of having a percentage of royal blood, and of course, fulfilling a boy's dream. Thank you both!" he rose his glass in their honor, while they comfortably sat in one of his many living rooms, he and John teaming up to end a bottle of the finest cognac, Sherlock staying sober minded.

After a few attacks of hysterical laughter, John decided he had enough booze for one night. He excused himself to go to sleep, with bumping the furniture a few times on his way out of the room.

"So, you've kept your part of the deal, now it's time for me to keep mine. What interest you?" asked the blonde man, now that he and Sherlock were alone.

"It doesn't interest me." Sherlock responded calmly, forming a triangle with his fingers.

"Yes it does." Said Martin, smiling at him with certainty.

"You know, I never had the fortune or better said unfortune of falling for her, we were always just good friends. But everyone I knew everywhere did."

Sherlock remained silent. He didn't like to be categorized as everyone, especially not on the present matter.

"Alright then, I'll be a good host then and I'll just start talking since you don't have anything in particular to ask. We've met some ten years ago I think, when she was just recognizing the dominatrix within her. I've just completed my economic studies in England and I was so bored by the stiffness of your people; how cold they are, how restrained. She was dating one of my colleagues, well dating, if that could even be categorized as dating. She was using him to get her in the high society, which was working very well, and everyone was fascinated by her. She was an artist in manipulation; she could make people believe anything. And she could make them do anything, thus her career choice later on. The next part is familiar to you as I understand. And when she died to the world, I helped her to start over in my very own city so I could assist her."

"How kind of you." Sherlock simply stated.

"Not as kind as saving her in the first place."

Sherlock frowned again. He felt an urge to end the conversation, which Martin caught so he changed the subjects to criminals they both knew.

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><p>John and Sherlock left for England a few days later after enjoying Martin's hospitality a while longer then they first planed. Both of them enjoyed his company very much so they somehow forget that he wasn't always on the same side of the law as they were. None of the men mentioned Irene again during their staying.<p>

Irene Adler dressed unrecognizably in a blonde schoolgirl with glasses watched Sherlock Holmes pass through the gate at the airport. As soon as he was out of sight, she blend in the crowd.

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><p>Many months after the events in Amsterdam, England was shaken by the scandal of Sherlock Holmes, the fraud detective, the former Reichenbach hero. It appeared that he, who called himself the world's only consulting detective up to the point, invented his arch nemesis, James Moriarty. He hired an actor Richard Brook to fill in the part of this criminal master mind so Holmes would have opportunities to display his intellectual powers and be the hero of the nation. His literal fall took place at the rooftop of St Bartholomew's hospital, where the alleged genius jumped into his death, disgraced after his deceit was discovered. The unfortunate actor met his death on the very same rooftop as the last victim of this madman who shot him before leaping to his end.<p>

Irene Adler was reading the English newspapers on her laptop, as she did every day, to feel less homesick. The tea mug fell out of her shaking hand when she read the news of Sherlock's death. Never seeing him again was not an option, she thought, convincing herself that this cannot be. Her restless eyes flew over the whole text, in desperate search for something to hold on to, some last straw of hope. Suicide? Sherlock would never do such a thing, he was such an egocentric, his viewpoint to suicide would be 'I couldn't possibly do this to the world; it would substantially reduce the IQ of the whole planet." No, suicide was not on his repertoire, he was too fond of himself. She couldn't imagine what desperate circumstances could bring him to such a decision. Moriarty an actor? What the hell was that? Her heart finally slowed down upon reading the last sentence. Sherlock wouldn't kill Moriarty and then himself, that didn't make any sense. She smiled, trying to calm her nerves; he was alive, he had to be.

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><p>It took her nearly a month to find him. He chose a good hiding place, but she was highly motivated to find him.<p>

She hiked to reach his hideout for more than two hours. She was breathing heavily, exhausted from the climbing when she reached her destination; the house on a very steep cliff. Without further delay, she knocked on the door.

Sherlock opened the door with a shock that could only be compared to seeing Moriarty in the apartment of Kitty Riley. He looked at her like he saw a ghost, a ghost of the past:

"What are you doing here?" he simply said, pale of surprise.

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><p><strong>Hi! I tried to finish this in between chapter as soon as possible, so I can start the next one very soon :) In the next chapter I'll explain where Sherlock is hiding and how Irene found him, this ending is just an introduction to that. Please leave me a review, I was so delighted with how many I got for the last chapter! :)<strong>


	11. Chapter 11

**Hello :) As I promised, this Chapter came quickly after the last one. Those of you who saw 'The Last Enemy' with Benedict Cumberbatch will notice that I borrowed some of the details from that series. Those of you who haven't- I highly recommend it :) I had so much fun writing this chapter, I hope you'll have as much fun reading it :) **

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><p>Sherlock Holmes, or Stephen Ezard, as he was now called found his hiding place in China, on the mountain Hua Shan, not far from the city of Xian, where the famous terra cotta warriors were. His house was on the highest of the five mountain peaks, linked to civilization only by stone paths and stairs, carved in the very mountain. The view from it was breathtaking which didn't interest Mr. Ezard very much; he was a mathematician who chose this particular spot which provided him with the necessary peace and isolation to work on his new theory, or so the few people he came into contact with thought. The view didn't interest Mr. Holmes either, since he chose it as a hideout, and he wasn't known as a man who admires nature a lot. In fact, the only thing that interested Mr. Holmes at the moment was what in the devil's name was Irene Adler doing at his front door.<p>

"What are you doing here?" he repeated the question, still unable to think of anything else to say.

She had an ecstatic smile on her face: "I knew you were alive! I knew it before I came here, but it's good to see the confirmation of your theories in person. May I come in...?Stephen. "She smiled flirtatiously.

Sherlock got himself back together, remembering he actually doesn't want to see her, or so he thought.

"No. Why are you here?" he said, with a mild tone of irritation in his repeated question this time.

Her smile vanished, and she firmly crossed her arms on her chest, assuming a displeased posture.

"Hello Irene. It's so nice of you to travel across half of the world just to come and see me." She said in a sarcastic manner.

"Hello Irene. You shouldn't have done that in the first place. Could you leave now, I'm busy." Said Sherlock, in an even worse tone.

"Busy with what?" she laughed at him. "I'm pretty sure you're driving yourself insane her, isolated from everything and everyone. The best part of you day must be when an animal passes by or when it rains!" she said, now visibly irritated.

"Even if it were so, it is certainly not your job to entertain me, so off you go!" Sherlock answered, accenting each of the last three words.

They stood there, looking at each other in silent anger.

Sherlock couldn't stand the silence anymore, so with the face of an offended child he asked her:

"So, how did you find me?"

A huge smile appeared on Irene's up to that moment frowned face. She raised her eyebrow:

"If you make me a cup of tea, I'll tell you."

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><p>"It's beautiful here." She said, admiring the view from one of the windows.<p>

Sherlock came in, carrying a tray with two cups of tea. "I don't know, I never really thought about it."

He observed her while she calmly drank her tea. It was the first time he saw her in clothes that were more practical then nice or provocative; she even had a backpack. The only things that didn't change from her usual style were her red nails and the lipstick in the matching color she clearly put on just before knocking on his door. He couldn't deduce what interest she had in finding him here; how did she manage, and why didn't she believe the story of his death like everyone else? The only good thing about the situation was the surprise effect; he was still in too much of a shock to think about Amsterdam and what happened between them.

"You look different." She stated. "Bright colors on you. It looks funny."

"I am an eccentric mathematician who always wears the same clothes. In that way, people think 'Oh, there's the dork in the same clothes he always wears' and don't pay much attention to his curious resemblance to the very dead English detective."

"Nice touch." She smiled.

"Thank you." He didn't smile back.

"I've disappointed you." She stated.

"Not really. For someone to disappoint you you must have an unreal image of what he or she is like; you merely reminded me why you're not to be trusted."

At that point she decided not to tell him about Moriarty yet. It would be much more fun to win him back over on her own and then tell him, especially since he had nowhere to hide from her in here, so success was imminent.

"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity getting the best of him again.

"Ah, that." She smiled. "I must admit you, you had me...fooled for a moment, I was horrified upon reading an article about your suicide. But then something didn't seem right. I knew you worshiped yourself too much to do such a thing."

"I had to. Moriarty threatened to kill all of my friends if I didn't take a leap of shame after the whole affair."

"All of us?" she teased.

"You're not my friend."

"What am I then?"

"The person explaining how she found me, you can continue with that."

She smiled. "After realizing you were alive, I tried to walk in your shoes, get in your mind. What would I do if I was believed to be dead and if I wanted to keep it that way? I knew you had two choices, to hide in plain sight or go somewhere far away, and I voted for option number two since you are such a hot topic in England, it would be a risk for you to stay there. So somewhere far away it was. Then I decided that it would probably be a non-English speaking country because of the smaller probability that they read English newspapers, so they probably wouldn't have heard anything about you. I had a sense that you'd choose an intellectual occupation, since you're obviously in this for the long run, so for a couple of weeks I studied the files of our young scientist, philosophers and others of your age relocating somewhere abroad within a few days from your alleged death. It was a long list, but faith served me when a discovered a file without a photograph on a man named Stephen Ezard, a brilliant young mind relocating to China to do his experiments in some private estate. It was not entirely deduction; I had a hunch about this, so I pulled some strings in Asia to discover that Mr. Ezard has dark hair, blue eyes, a strange habit to always wear the same clothes; and nasty social habits too. After that, finding out what some people who could give me your new address like was very easy."

"Impressive." Said Sherlock honestly.

"Meretricious." Said Irene with fake modesty.

"Well, if you leave now, you will reach the city just before dark. I'll walk you out." Said Sherlock, jumping to his feet.

"Slow down, Mr. Holmes. I'm not going anywhere."

"You can't stay here; I hope that's clear to you."

"I am staying, that is obviously not clear to you."

"Somebody could have followed you when you came. The longer you stay, the greater is the danger you're pulling us both into. You are dead to, remember?"

"I was very careful. The only danger is that someone could see me on the way down when I would leave, so I'm sure you realize it's best if I just stay."

Sherlock frowned. He would rather argue with ten people at once then with her.

"And how long do you plan on disturbing me exactly?"

"For a while. Maybe you'll be the one asking me to stay in the end."

"I highly doubt that."

"I know. That's what makes it interesting."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. And then he started feeling hurt, drawing the parallels between this and the last time he saw her. She was playing him, again. He will not fall for it again. She obviously wouldn't leave unless he threatened her with a gun, and he feared she'll return with an even bigger gun afterwards in that case. Perhaps she'll be bored if he completely ignores her, and then she will leave. That could be it. 'Do you really want her to leave?' said John's voice, appearing again in an awkward situation. Yes, of course, he thought. She really is shameless. How does she even dare to come here after what she did?

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><p>They spent the rest of the afternoon silent, Irene reading a book, Sherlock staring at the wall. He couldn't ignore her presence for a second; he tried to think of anything else but it didn't work, she popped back into his mind only seconds after she left. Damn that woman.<p>

"Let's have dinner." She said, snapping him out of his chain of thoughts.

"What?"

"Dinner. I mean real dinner this time." She said pointing to the kitchen table where the dinner she was referring to was. He didn't even notice that it was dark now.

"Oh."

"Don't be so disappointed, nobody says we can't have two dinners in one evening...at least." She winked.

Sherlock planned a silent boycott of her food, but he gave in after the first bite. He was definitely eating to live, not the other way around, but she knew her cooking. He frowned again. He fell for her food once before, he is not going to do that again. But he could finish off what was in his plate; it would be a shame to waste such nice food. This was not good, he realized.

"To whom may we thank for this nice food in the fridge? Not to you, that's for sure. I sometimes think you perform photosynthesis; where are your leaves hidden in that case?"She asked mischievously.

"Mycroft. He will be my sponsor as long as I'm dead; that's his way of apologizing for ruining and ending my life. It works fine for me."

"I never liked him." Said Irene, amused with the story.

"Neither did I." Sherlock agreed.

She poured herself a glass of vine. "Interested?" she asked, pointing to the other glass she took out of the cupboard.

"Not even the slightest." He said, getting up.

He walked out of the kitchen to the terrace. It was probably because he needed a moment alone, she thought with a smile, and then followed him.

She found him leaning on the fence of the terrace, above him the most beautiful sky she ever saw. It reminded her of that night when she kissed him. Now that's an idea, she thought. Sneaking up on him, like a cat on her mouse, she put one of her arms on his shoulder. He twitched when he sensed her touch.

She looked deep into his eyes, as if she tried to see his soul through them. He was petrified by the hunger in her eyes; her half opened mouth and the slightly increasing pressure her hand made on his shoulder. He could foresee her actions so clearly, and he snapped out of the temptation in the last moment.

"Oh no, you're not. Not this time." Said Sherlock, moving a step back and out of her reach.

"You're so selfish Mr. Holmes. Can't a girl have her moment of romance?"

"A girl, yes. A man-eater, no."

"Was that a compliment?" she said, approaching him as a hunter again.

"I'm going to bed. And no, don't say it's a good idea, or whatever it is that you would say."

"I wasn't going to say anything, what gives you that idea?" she said, laughing.

He rolled his eyes. "The guest bedroom, your bedroom", emphasizing the 'your', "is the one next to the kitchen."

Irene smiled. She couldn't remember if she ever enjoyed the game so much; he was just so wonderful to flirt at. After finishing another glass of vine on the terrace, she judged that he had enough time to lie down, and not fall asleep of course. She could bet he was lying, staring in the darkness and thinking about the woman that was taking parts of her clothes off on her way to his room, leaving them on the floor as breadcrumbs. Before opening the door, she loosened her long, curly hair.

She opened the door as quietly as possible, although she knew he heard her already when she was in the hallway. She slipped under the cover next to him, visibly amused by his fake sleeping.

"I know you're awake." She said in a chanting voice.

"I have a theory that you will disappear if I don't see you. It was working just fine until a moment ago, don't spoil it."

Irene laughed, gently scratching his neck. "But I don't feel like sleeping." She said, provoking him.

She was giving his self control such a hard time. Surprisingly, the moment she came, the same old sentiment causing happiness flooded him, replacing the bitterness and anger he felt for her in the many months that passed since their last meeting. He knew somewhere deep down that he was very happy to see her, despite everything. That didn't make sense, after all that happened between them. It scared him to lose control to her again; and it scared him even more that he wanted to trust her again. The fact that her head was now on his shoulder, her hand playing with his hair and neck and the warm sensation her naked body pressed gently against his was not helpful in any way. He just lay there, half enjoying the moment, half waiting for her to grow bored of it and fall asleep. And she did, but not before gently kissing his lips before assuming her final sleeping position on his shoulder.

"Goodnight Mr. Holmes."

"Goodnight."

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><p><strong>Thank<strong>** you for reading & please review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hi! I would just like to thank Barus for pointing me in the right direction for this chapter :) Enjoy!**

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><p>Irene woke up discovering an empty bed. At first she felt alarmed but then she remembered why she came here in the first place; he had nowhere to run away. Since she left her clothes lying on the floor of the hallway, she decided to borrow his dark blue dressing gown. Securing the belt around her thin waste, she decided to go out and look for him. She smiled to the strange feeling of wearing something that belongs to Sherlock. It was the smallest of steps in conquering his territory, but it was good enough for now; the day was just starting.<p>

Sherlock woke almost an hour before Irene did. Actually, he hardly slept and he decided that it was pointless to lie down, so he got out of bed an hour before she woke. Her presence was killing him. So he decided to speed the process up by smoking his third cigarette that morning. Since his isolation in the life beyond the grave started, nicotine patches weren't doing the trick for him anymore. And since yesterday, cigarettes weren't either. He remembered the days before he met John, which gave his life certain stability. Before that, his best friend was a seven percent cocaine dilution which he missed so badly now.

She was like a drug to him, unpredictable, she felt good in the moment when he had her and the crisis of longing for her was awful. And no matter how much he hated her, he still wanted more. And for luck, good or bad, more he got.

"Good morning." She said, joining him on the terrace. She frowned upon seeing the cigarette in his hand. "I thought you quit."

"I thought I had privacy here, but we both thought wrong, obviously."

They just stood next to each other for a few minutes, without exchanging a single word.

"Do you hate me?" she asked, lighting herself a cigarette.

"Hate is a sentiment. I'm cautiously indifferent towards you."

"You're a bad liar, you know."

"We can't all be on your level I suppose." He said with mild contempt.

"I'm glad you hate me." She said.

"Because there is a thin line between love and hate?" he interrupted her. "That kind of cheap cliché doesn't suit you well."

She smiled. "No. It's because hate is passionate, hate consumes in a haunting manner and doesn't let the object of you hate slip out of your mind."

"I still don't hate you."

"I know. It would be nice if you did though, don't you think?" she said in amusement.

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><p>They took a walk during the day on Irene's initiative. Sherlock accepted after a lot of persuasion; her ironic argument 'If you run fast enough you might even escape me, or I could fall of a cliff if you're really lucky' beat his 'I'm just going to sit here and ignore you until you become tired of convincing me and go out and walk alone'. He had to admit, it was rather nice talking to someone, in the absence of John or his beloved skull. He wasn't used to small talk with people; mostly because people were too stupid even with big, important talks, so he didn't see a point in giving them a chance with the small ones.<p>

The bad thing in all of it was that he was getting used to her presence and the stitches of his old wounds began to crack, one by one. He understood her first betrayal up to a point; they knew each other briefly, she had a lot to gain, she would even have the satisfaction of bringing a nation to its knees, an item few dominatrixses had in their CV's, he was sure. But there was nothing to justify what she did to him afterwards. She dragged him to the Netherlands, played with him for a few days, and as Moriarty would say if he were her 'The flirting is over, Sherlock. The Woman had enough now.'

He had a strong urge to yell at her, to accuse her, to condemn her. He hated the fact that he wanted to believe her. That was the dangerous thing about sentiment; it had a will of his own. He knew that relieving himself of what was bothering him so much would only make her feel more victorious, more in power. He felt like a prisoner of his own mind. His shields were breaking down with every smile she gave him, every sexual insinuation she dropped into an unrelated conversation, every time she touched his arm nonchalantly while they walked.

By the time they got back, it was clear to Irene that Sherlock was deeply tormented by his thoughts although most people probably wouldn't notice the signs; his hands were restless, he was hyperactive but silent and he seemed like he really, really needed a smoke, but even when he had one, it didn't help. She decided to let him be and started making dinner, leaving him with the personal space he so longed for. She decided to stop the game and tell him the truth, although she feared that he might not believe her after all that happened between them. She sighed; the beginning of something between them and his inner piece were a small price to pay in order to keep him alive.

She went to look for him and she found him lying on his back in the darkened bedroom, staring in the ceiling. Of course he heard her come in, but he didn't even bother to hide his expression; hurt and loathing towards the darkness where he undoubtedly saw her face.

"Um, Sherlock, dinner is ready." She said with deep concern.

"Leave."

"Alright, but you haven't eaten all day, you really should..."

"Not the room. This house. Me. My life."

She took a deep breath and started approaching him to sit next to him but he straightened up and looked at her with a look she hoped never to see again; the layers of emotions that she saw broke her into pieces.

"I...I wanted to talk to you over dinner. There are some things I needed to..." she said, her voice shivering.

He stood up swiftly, crossing the room in a few steps to stand in front of her.

"What didn't you understand in the word leave?" he said, emphasizing every word he said.

She took a step back, feeling startled from his attitude. She took a deep breath to gather her strength; she was going to make him hear her out, whatever it takes.

"What happened in Amsterdam, when you came to Moriarty's house, it wasn't real."

"Oh you were just playing the game, right? What a déjà vu!" he stated rolling his eyes. "You should really make up new lines for conversations like this, they seem to become quite often."

"He gave me a choice, a choice with only one partially acceptable option; he offered me to hurt you, to mess with you and keep us both alive and unhappy or to have us both killed."

Sherlock analyzed her expression, as if he was trying to get to the very essence of what she was saying. She seemed strangely honest; but then again why would he believe her?

"Why would I believe anything you say ever again? Give me just one reason, just one tiny reason to trust you again and end up as a fool for the god knows which time."

"Because it's the truth."

Sherlock started laughing. He laughed at her with an equal mixture of amusement and despise.

"You are amazing Irene Adler. You really are. If the next thing that comes out of your mouth starts with an L, then I've heard it all."

Her sadness started to transform into anger. She opened her soul to him and he was laughing at her. She knew she had it coming but still; it made her want to fight back.

"Look who's talking. The great Sherlock Holmes, driven out of his mind by sentiment. Look at yourself, you are making a scene over emotions, is that clear to you? You became sentimental, what's next, you'll become socially acceptable? Should I take your pulse this time? It must be through the roof!"

"Maybe you were right before. I think I really hate you." Said Sherlock, his face only inches away from hers.

"I'm very pleased to hear that." She said, getting even closer to him.

His inner priorities were fighting at the moment; he wanted to make her disappear because of how angry he was at her but he also wanted to kiss her in order to explain to her how angry he was. Did that even make sense? He moved away, covering his face with his hands.

"You know what, if you won't leave, I will." He said, turning around to leave the room.

She moved quickly to her side, intercepting him on his way out. She crossed her arms over her chest.

"No you are not. Not until you hear me out. I'll leave afterwards." She negotiated, offering his brain a compromise to calm him down. Naturally, she lied.

He said nothing but he also didn't move. She saw that as a sign to start talking:

"I planned on leaving you safe in my apartment, at least for a while. I had previously arranged everything with Martin, for him to back me up and to help you when and if you manage to free yourself. I went to meet Moriarty to try and convince him to change his mind somehow; I knew his final goal was to mess with us both. He awaited me with a different intention. He said there was no use in killing us if he can use me to torture you, to as he says 'burn the heart out of you'. I had no choice but to accept that, as difficult as it was, and it worked; we are both still alive. And if you find the strength of forgiving me, now that Moriarty is dead, we could maybe..."

Sherlock smiled. He didn't seem angry anymore, just amused. That made Irene angry:

"Fine. Laugh your heart out."

"Either you are selling me another master lie, which wouldn't surprise me the least, or you are telling the truth which is highly unlikely. Either way, I know for sure that you got one detail wrong."

"Which one?"

"Moriarty isn't dead."

He observed her for a moment; there was no mistake in deducing the honest terror on her face.

"Well, there is a new one. A certainly honest emotion coming from you." He said, amused.

"But...I came here to find you because I thought he was dead, because I thought we were both safe now."

"We were, and if you were really careful with your arrival, we possibly still are. I am quite sure he doesn't know I'm alive, so I hope you will be able to keep that as a secret when you leave as you promised; I did listen to your little story."

Irene regained control of herself again, and it was her turn to make a scene.

"You didn't believe me for a second? Is it so hard to believe that I could risk my life to save you, like you did for me?"

"It is."

"Why? You think I'm some kind of calculated monster? Why did you behave the way you did towards me in Amsterdam? Why let your guard down?"

"As an experiment. I was curious."

She almost ran towards him under the influence of rage. She pushed him: "I'm glad I hurt you in Amsterdam! You had an experimental experience in being human in that way, without it you would just be an unemotional jerk as you've always been!"

"That must be the reason why you like me."

She gave up and moved away to let him leave, she couldn't deal with his insufferableness any more. He pulled her back, holding her close to him. She stared in him doubtfully, he felt even more doubtful, but he went for it anyway; he took initiative and kissed her, holding her firmly so she couldn't escape his embrace.

Her resistance didn't last long; her arms were tracing various patterns all over him. He stopped for a moment, leaning his forehead on hers, looking at her significantly.

"I don't trust you."

"I don't care." She said, completely uninterested of this subject at the moment.

And neither did Sherlock. He didn't even care about the proving his sentiment to her once again, for exposing his weakness; the only thing he cared about was his pleasurable position, being tightly pressed between Irene and the wall. There was no place he would rather be on at the moment; the acknowledgement that he in fact needed her was terrifying him, but her presence was comforting enough and much more than that.

She started undoing his belt and that's when a wave of cold panic went through him, so he instinctively caught her wrists.

She smiled, but not in a mocking manner, more in pure amusement. "Oh, I forgot. Nothing happens until the third date with you."

He gave her an 'I hate you look' and she laughed out of the bottom of her heart. She calmed down after deducing the change in the color of his cheeks; they were turning slightly pink.

"I'm just joking. This, us, it's specific in every way comparing to everything I've experienced in my life, so we don't have to rush it in anyway. The first difference being that I don't have to use the riding crop on you, you seem cooperative enough." She smirked. "Besides, you have nowhere to run away as we already concluded several times."

He smiled, still feeling a mixture of shame and now relieve. He didn't really want to say anything since it felt unpleasant enough so he just kissed her again. His never resting mind made a mental note that this was a good way to get out of embarrassing situations.

Eventually they fell asleep. To be exact, she did while he absently played with her hair, thinking about the strange new circumstances in his life.

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><p><strong>Thank you for sticking with me and please review!<strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**Hi! I tried updating as soon as possible, as I promised. Thank you once again for so many reviews! I must say, I think this is my favorite chapter yet, so enjoy :)**

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><p>It was so funny watching Sherlock sleep, Irene thought with a smile. She observed him lying on his side, his face turned towards her with an ultimate carefree expression. He frowned at some point, as if he had a bad dream, but he resumed his serene state soon enough; he reminded her of an overgrown child. She wondered weather anyone ever had the privilege of being this close to him while he slept; did anyone get an invitation before her to approach him in such a state. Her inner dominatrix was dying to misbehave while he was just lying there, helpless in her claws; she briefly considered cuffing him to the bed just for the opportunity to cherish the look of surprise and horror on his face. But she decided it was better not to; at least for a while more, she decided with a devilish smile. Instead, she traced patterns over his shoulder and arm with the very tips of her long, thin fingers.<p>

If he only knew how he fascinated her, how she wanted to examine every single part of him, to sneak into the darkest corners of his mind and see what is hidden there, to own him entirely, soul and body. She desired the feeling of being in power of him completely, having him in control in order to do wonderful things with him, things that would make his cheeks so adorably pink in the way they were last night. Translating her thoughts from the language of a dominatrix at heart, she felt quite in love in the object of her observation. And she also felt bored with his passiveness; he slept long enough, she decided.

With one quick move, she repositioned herself on top of him, lying parallel with his body, crossing her arms bellow his neck. He opened his eyes and discovered her looking back at him with a smirk from a very close distance.

"You were bored, weren't you?"

She replied by kissing his neck, breaking him away from the last traces of sleep.

"I let you sleep as long as you liked yesterday." He wailed sleepily.

"Yes, but that was so yesterday. And besides, now I'm the one that is bored."

Sherlock smiled. "Will I survive this cohabiting with you?"

"Only if you learn how to misbehave; otherwise, you are in big trouble."

"Oh but we don't want that to happen, do we?" he smiled, rolling her over so she was tightly secured between him and the bed.

She wanted to resume control but he was quicker, catching both of her wrists and holding them above her head.

"Mr. Holmes, you have some tricks up your sleeve after all, I'm pleasantly surprised."

"I have to, given the circumstances. I'm surprised I didn't wake up cuffed to the bed."

"You've read my mind."

"Oh, if only I could." He sighed.

"Will you have breakfast with me?"

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><p>They sat on opposite sides of the table; Irene wearing the shirt she stole off of Sherlock's shoulders during the negotiations whether or not he must eat. He was frustrated by her interference in his unorthodox life style, but he was also secretly glad that she cared whether or not he will starve himself to death one day simply because he forgot to eat. She increased the frustration level when she wouldn't let him eat in piece, since she constantly teased him by touching his knee with her foot under the table.<p>

"I can see why people paid you to torture them, you are insufferably persistent." Said Sherlock, taking another bite of the scrambled eggs Irene had made.

"I know. Trust me, you will beg for more someday."

"I thought we discussed the whole begging thing?"

"Indeed. We could use this very table if you agree?" she raised one eyebrow provocatively.

"It wouldn't be fair of me to put you through all that trouble when I haven't deserved it by deciphering anything." He stated, faking the shyness in his voice.

"That reminds me, you still haven't explained me why you think Moriarty is alive? I read that they found his body."

"Oh Ms. Adler, since when are you so naïve? You read of my death too, but they got that wrong as well, as you can see."

She rolled her eyes to his 'naïve' comment. She'll show him who is naïve later.

"Alright then. I'm listening." Irene demanded.

"As I've told you before, Moriarty tried to make me jump of that rooftop by threatening to kill my friends. By that point I knew the following: Since he tried to take my reputation, my freedom and the people around me away, I knew that the only remaining step in his plan would be to take my life. I made a plan of my own, choosing the hospital as the rendezvous point since I know the surroundings so well. I arranged some details with Molly, a friend from the coroner's office. I came up there, ready to act the broken, desperate man that I was expected to be, when the conversation took a different turn when Moriarty apparently shot himself in the head. I knew he would never deprive himself of actually witnessing his final victory, my bloody body on the pavement, so that had to be a show, made to push me even deeper in despair. In a split second I realized it was far more convenient for me to have the ghostly advantage a dead man has, so I made a show for him as well. I called John, asking him to tell everyone I had lied, that I was indeed a fraud; I even cried to make Moriarty behind my back believe that he won. Not for a single moment have I given him reason to suspect that I believed he was gone forever. Then I jumped into my prearranged death and the rest you know."

"But how can you be sure he faked it? You know, better than anyone, how mad he is; or was."

"I checked, with Molly's assistance. The body in the Morgue was identical to him, except it was dead for half a day longer then it should have been. He obviously had a double, somebody he paid to go through a series of surgeries in order to look exactly like him, probably for protection reasons, like presidents sometimes do. It suits him, president of all crime. And faking the blood coming out of your head is just a simple trick. My guess is, he planned his fake suicide before coming to meet me and then somebody switched his body with his double he killed before. It can be easily done; you just need someone on the inside, like I had Molly. "

"Alright, I'll trust your way of thinking." Said Irene seriously. "But what now?"

"Now I'm going to finish him off. He was quite right; we do have a problem, the final problem. We cannot coexist. If he is clever enough to bring destruction upon me, he can rest assured that I shall do as much to him."

The conversation started troubling Irene. She was at first secretly proud of Sherlock's play, of the genius way in which he survived, but then she realized that his living might not last for a while. She never doubted Sherlock's intelligence, but she knew that only a fool would underestimate Moriarty. The thing that frightened her most was the one advantage Moriarty had; he didn't have a heart, Sherlock did, no matter how hard he tried to hide it, it was there. Was he clever enough to compensate for that?

"You seem worried." Sherlock stated. He wasn't teasing her, he merely studied her expression.

"I was simply thinking what a shame it would be if you died without having dinner with me." She said, lousily covering her real fears up.

Sherlock saw right through it, but decided to say nothing. He just smiled and let it go.

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><p>Irene wanted to take a shower after another long walk they took in the middle of the day. She was going through a cupboard in the bedroom, looking for something of Sherlock's she could wear later on when she saw something that she couldn't explain, something that shocked her; her photograph, taken years ago in front of Martin's castle during one of her summer holidays there.<p>

How was it possible that it was here? She knew Martin kept it because he particularly liked it; he said it showed the way she truly was. She was sure he would never give it to Sherlock, especially not without telling her about it. She smiled. That leaves only one explanation. She felt a bit sad when she realized how hurt he was, and he still took it; he liked it for the same reasons that Martin did. Picking the purple shirt out of the closet; or the purple shirt of sex as she secretly called it, she headed for the shower.

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><p>Sherlock was busy writing a report for the university Steven Ezard was assigned to. He felt Irene's hand on his shoulder:<p>

"Just let me finish this, alright?" he said, without even looking at her.

She didn't move so he rolled his eyes and turned around to look at her. She was wearing his favorite purple shirt. Only his favorite purple shirt.

"That's mine." He simply stated, since nothing better popped into his mind at the moment.

"Come and get it then." She said in her most provocative tone, turning over her shoulder since she was already headed to his room.

Sherlock sat in his chair, motionless. He quickly analyzed the situation: If he remained where he was, he would be safe from whatever she wanted to do to him, which he potentially also wanted, but the only risk was that her disappointment might consequentially result in her drugging him and doing whatever she wanted in the first place. If he, on the other hand went there, the only risk was that he would be petrified like the night before, which would cause embarrassment to him and potential drugging urges to her. Basically, he had no choice, so he swallowed and slowly got up.

She met him halfway, since she wasn't the most patient type of woman. They looked at each other during one second which seemed like eternity, and then she just jumped at him, literally. She wrapped her legs around his waist, kissing him deeply and passionately. His brain had only one thought before completely shutting down for the evening; the fact that we are standing next to a desk doesn't mean that I'm going to beg.

He turned, dropping her on the very desk. Irene pushed away all the things that were on the desk, including his laptop, which his gaze sadly followed to the ground. She traced the pattern of his lips with her finger, so he decided he will just ask Mycroft for a new one, no big deal. She unbuttoned his shirt in one move, like they do in the stupid romantic films John saw. She was even more dexterous with the rest of his clothes, so he was standing only in his underwear in a matter of seconds. He started unbuttoning the purple shirt off of her (which justified its nickname that evening; twice), and she let him do it, in his own clumsy, shy tempo.

She was so attractive; he realized that just now, unlike any other woman he ever observed. She was the right combination of skinny and curvy, which he also, shockingly, realized at the moment she was up on her elbows on the desk, looking at him with true hunger in her eyes. Although she wore the same battle dress as the last time he saw her with nothing on, this time it was intimate; she didn't try to scare him off with it or make him lose focus. On the contrary, she wanted all his focus on her, as she twisted under his touch, provoking him with the movements of her nails on his bare back and her lips on his neck.

Irene didn't know what she wanted to do first, there were so many things she fantasized about for months. Sherlock didn't think; he wasn't able to, so he just did something. At some point, he just understood. It didn't take a genius to understand, and for better, he was one. His actions became bolder and that was just a motivation for her to do the same.

At some point, when time started flowing again, they were both lying on the desk exhausted.

Irene looked up at Sherlock with a playful smile:

"Do you think we should let Moriarty know that he should start working on a new nickname for you?"

He smiled. "Cigarette?"

"Cigarette indeed."

They smoked gratefully in silence. Sherlock only broke it to say: "I didn't beg in the end."

"The night is still young." Said Irene mischievously.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading and please review :)<strong>


	14. Chapter 14

**Hi! I tried to upload as soon as possible, as I promised. Enjoy :)**

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><p>More than a month had passed since the night Sherlock finally gave in and had dinner with Irene.<p>

He was lying on his side, in once his, now their bed, observing her while she was enthusiastically telling him the story of a divorce of a female movie star she caused a couple of years before. She smiled in honest amusement, telling him about all the nicknames the press gave her, and how they were all better then Boffin Sherlock Holmes. He stopped listening to her at some point, consumed with his analysis of her; his favorite hobby.

Living with her was a true adventure, so different then the peaceful flat sharing he had with John, he realized. She was capricious, stubborn, manipulative half of the time, while she spent the other half playing the role of the woman honestly in love. Playing the role, he thought.

He had got to know her, what she liked and disliked, in bed and out of it; he learned to recognize her moments of small sadness, when she unconsciously wrapped her arms around her torso, to know her mood by the music she listened to and weather she is sleepy by the twitching of her left eye. He knew so much more than before, but he still sometimes had the feeling that he didn't know her at all, and he doubted that would ever change; it was what kept her constantly interesting. Another thing stayed the same; he didn't trust her.

Sherlock smiled absently, realizing what a fool he had been to think that he could resist her efforts to make him completely lose his mind over her. He was intoxicated by her and after a couple of weeks, he just admitted himself the inevitable, deciding to play along, or as long as it lasts.

"You are not listening to me at all." She said, hitting him with a pillow.

"I'm thinking, respect my mind palace time."

"Thinking of what?"

"You." He said, sinking into his chain of thoughts again, analyzing her mimics.

"You're thinking something dirty aren't you? Oh, let's play the game when you find out I killed my husband, and I try to convince you not to report it?" she said, biting her lip.

"I was just analyzing you actually."

"You still didn't give up? You will never understand me completely, and even if you thought you did, you wouldn't believe it."

"Something like that."

She smiled, putting her head on his shoulder. He softly wrapped his arm around her, since he saw a very small sign of sadness in her eyes. It passed in less than a second, but he became better in perceiving them in time.

"You are never going to trust me completely, are you?" she asked.

"Probably not. But that doesn't affect anything. I'm just going to avoid situations in which I depend on you completely."

She remained silent, and he felt bad for hurting her. It was the truth; they were both aware of that.

"I made you sad." He simply stated.

"Is that an apology?" she said, regaining a part of her good mood.

"I was just telling the truth, so no need to apologize." Ha said, which made her blue, so he quickly added "But I don't want you to be upset about it."

"Good enough for me." She said, pulling him in for a kiss.

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><p>In general, things were developing quite nicely in the newfound Holmes-Adler home. Irene was certainly pleased with the Sherlock's new found creative side; the game was on. Soon enough, she was the one lying cuffed with her own silk scarf over her eyes; she begged more then once, as did he.<p>

They enjoyed each other in every way, hidden from the world and its problems. Irene proved herself as a more then satisfying replacement for the skull, since she, as well as John knew the value of silence. She was able to observe him for hours, while he was walking through some far corridors of his own mind, completely unaware of her gaze. She had to admit, things were far better then she could ever imagine; he was a human being after all, only his humanity needed a while to emerge to the surface. He even hugged her sometimes, completely spontaneously, gently, just to express he liked having her around.

One day something strange happened; the phone rang. Both Sherlock and Irene looked down to the coffee table away from the books they were reading. It was the mobile Sherlock had to talk to the locals that brought them food, but it never rang; he always called them.

"Well answer it." Irene said when Sherlock remained on his seat.

With an expression of ultimate laziness, he stretched his arm to the table, picking the phone up. He lifted one eyebrow as a sign of surprise.

"Mycroft? What is it?"

Irene felt something heavy in her stomach. It wasn't just that Mycroft believed she was dead and out of the way; this call could also end this illusion, the happy phase in her life since it could be a thing that would return Sherlock to his normal life. A life in London, where she didn't exist. Sherlock caught the anxiousness in her eyes, so he stood up looking at her in a confused manner and started talking only when he was out of her hearing range. Her whole body was tense as she waited the verdict, one part of her naively hoping that Mycroft was just checking up on his younger brother.

After nearly fifteen minutes, Sherlock came back into the room, visibly concerned. He sat in one of the armchairs, forming the well known triangle with his fingers, apparently completely unaware of Irene's piercing look.

"What did he say?" asked Irene, in a phony careless tone.

He answered seriously; his brow frowned, without even looking at her, focusing on some spot in front of him:

"He found Moriarty in Ireland."

Irene sighed. It was nice while it lasted:"So, what's your plan?"

He didn't reply, sinking deeper and deeper into his thoughts. She never saw him in such a dark mood; it was a mixture of concern and hatred. It was the final problem once again, and this time, it was personal, since Sherlock already lost everything because of it. Almost everything, he realized, still not looking at the enigmatic woman which became such an important piece of his puzzle.

Several hours later, when Irene fell into shallow sleep, Sherlock jumped on his feet. She shook her head as a reaction to sudden awakening and then quickly followed his lead onto the terrace. He paced up and down, with an excited focus on his face.

"Sherlock? Will you talk to me?" she said, leaning on the doorframe, still sleepy.

"It is the final problem, do you realize?" he grabbed Irene by her shoulders, looking at her significantly.

"I'm not following. What will you do now?"

He lost interest in the rest of the world again, sinking back into his thoughts and continuing his fast walk.

She sighed; this was going to be a long night. Picking up a blanket from the bedroom, she curled on the sofa under the terrace roof, planning to take a nap while Sherlock conducted his ritual.

At some point during the night, he became aware of Irene's presence and the fact that she was probably freezing in her sleep; he naturally didn't even notice that it was suddenly cold. He observed her, awkwardly realizing he should probably move her inside, where it is warm. As slowly as possible, he picked her up to carry her inside, hoping she would not wake up and comment his gentleman like behavior; he would be embarrassed for his entire lifetime in that case.

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><p>She opened her eyes and met his in the same moment. He was obviously focused on looking at her, and not through her, as he sometimes did, which was a good thing. The bad thing was that he wouldn't show consideration towards her sleep if the conversation je obviously had in mind wasn't a tricky one.<p>

She hugged her pillow, adjusting herself into a comfortable position. "Start talking." She simply said.

"I have to go."

"I know."

"You can't come with me."

She could have sworn she saw a glimpse of sadness in his eyes, but the mask remained firmly on in such a delicate situation. Since the evening they decided to give themselves a new start without defining it in that way, she didn't have the bitter pleasure of seeing it, she only enjoyed Sherlock Holmes, the real man beneath the hat.

"I don't accept that."

He studied her, knowing that she knew what he thought, but also knowing that she wouldn't back down in any case; perhaps he should drug her now. He took a deep breath and started the battle with no winner:

"First of all, you are dead, that makes your traveling around significantly more difficult than usual, and two dead people attract more attention than one. Second of all, I...I cannot know if you will change your mind in the last moment and slide on to Moriarty's side when I need you the most."

"I will follow you to wherever it is you are going, with or without your permission and I will stop only when I judge that my presence is putting you in danger."

"Why?" he asked, unsure of what he wanted to achieve.

"Because you're the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?" she joked.

Caring was not an advantage; Mycroft sometimes did say something smart, but Sherlock was just too stubborn to listen to anyone's advice. With that thought, he stood up:

"We need to get you a new ID in that case."

Irene was sweeping the house of anything incriminating while Sherlock spoke on the phone to Mycroft:

"Yes, a woman. No, she is not a local. She is a colleague, an expert in the field; she even worked undercover for some time..."

Irene had to cover her mouth up to smother the laughter. Sherlock gave her a reproaching look and then continued speaking. After a few minutes he hung up, with his cheeks a bit pinker then when he started talking.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Yasim Anwar Ezard."

Irene almost fell to her knees since she laughed so hard. Wiping the tear out of her eye, she spoke between laughing:

"If I had only known that marriage was what it took to get you to have dinner, I would have proposed a long time ago. Funny though, I never considered you as the marrying type." She continued laughing.

He looked deadly at her: "It was Mycroft's idea, to make it simpler. Besides, it's only on paper."

She held him under the arm: "But no, darling, this is just lovely. We should live in the suburbs and have eleven sons which you could coach as a football team." She could barely control herself since she was so amused.

Sherlock was not amused. "I'm filing for divorce as soon as possible."

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><p>The next day, The Ezards were on the airport, waiting to board in a jumbo headed to London. Sherlock pulled Irene to the side, taking a small box out of his pocket.<p>

"In your words, if that is what I think it is, I have seen it all."

"It's just to keep up appearance, don't get excited." He said, putting a wedding ring on her finger as discretely as possible.

"I do." She said, mocking him with the dreamy expression.

Fourteen hours later, they were on beloved English soil again. The mathematician wore his characteristic clothes and a cap in the matching colors, while his not-at-all glamorous wife walked besides him in loosened, sport's clothes. Her hair was up in a ponytail and she wore glasses; they looked like an ordinary, a bit geek couple.

A man in an expensive suit approached them:

"Mr. and Mrs. Ezard. Come with me."

And so they got in a black car, on its way to the residence of the elderly Holmes brother.

Mycroft waited for Sherlock on his feet, which was a surprise for the detective; the feeling of guilt was still there, Sherlock deduced, which was good, since he needed all the manipulation material for what was going to happen next.

Mycroft smiled awkwardly, looking down: "Sherlock. I'm glad you are alright."

"Thank you Mycroft, I successfully survived your gossip meetings with Moriarty." Not giving Mycroft a chance to defend himself, he added with an evil smirk: "Oh and by the way, have you met my wife?"

Yasim Anwar Ezard entered the room and Mycroft Holmes's mouth opened in complete, consuming shock.

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading and please review :)<strong>


	15. Chapter 15

Mycroft resisted the urge to rub his eyes, doubting that they are letting him down; instead, he just stared at the woman, The Woman as his brother liked to call her, smiling at him in a victorious way.

"Mr. Holmes. Long time no see." She said.

Mycroft decided to express his shock by yelling at Sherlock. It seemed acceptable enough to lose his temper, given the situation:

"Explain this. How and why and? Oh I know why. How could you be so stupid, again?" he started yelling.

Sherlock's smirked, remaining completely cool in the situation, since he knew that would throw Mycroft out of tact even more:

"I decided to bring another soul back from the dead. What a Good Samaritan I am, would you agree?"

"Logically. She only had a chance with your help; I was foolish to believe you weren't bewitched by her that evening when you allegedly despised her. It was all a well directed show. In the end, you are common, falling for the same things everyone else would, the femme fatale. But tell me, Sherlock, what will you do when she grows bored of you? When you're not the shiniest trophy in her collection anymore?"

Sherlock frowned. He was secretly wondering about the very same things, but he surely didn't want to discuss them out loud, especially not with his brother. Before he could reply, Irene interfered:

"Why does that bother you anyway? As I understand, you did more damage to your brother then I will ever be able to. I may have fooled him in the past, but he never jumped from anything because of me."

"Not yet anyway." Mycroft added, his expression as dark as ever. He turned towards Sherlock, proving that deduction skills run in the family and hitting the weak spot: "How do you know you can trust her? Did sentiment cloud your judgment so much that you don't even think about that? You know you shouldn't trust in the magic of first love, but then again, most people learn that in high school, you'll just need a bit more time." He said, viciousness shining out of his eyes.

"I'm here to talk about Moriarty, not my life beyond the grave." Sherlock simply replied, pretending that Mycroft's words didn't bother him at all.

"It's quite fascinating that you have one, I must add. We can discuss business, but I prefer to do it in privacy." He said, looking in Irene's direction with unmistakable despise.

"Go ahead; I need to rest from the trip anyway. See you later...brother in law."

Mycroft's shoulders hitched almost unnoticeably as he followed his younger brother out of the room.

Irene looked at them with a smirk. One does not simply leave her to be beheaded and lives without consequences. He will have to break his diet to comfort himself after having her as a guest for a few days, she decided, smiling evilly.

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><p>Sherlock went up to the main guest room after an hour of talking to his brother. Before he even touched the doorknob, Irene opened the door, pulling him in for the collar of his jacket. She swiftly closed the door, pushing him onto them. He couldn't help but notice that she was wearing only a towel, and that her wet her smelled of chamomile. She looked at him intensely, seductively and without breaking eye contact. She slowly started unbuttoning his shirt with one of her hands, while she was leaning on the door next to Sherlock's head with the other:<p>

"I believe Mycroft is sitting at his desk, thinking of all the horrible things I might be doing to you under his very roof. Let's not disappoint him."

Although Mycroft's words still troubled him in the back of his head, Irene's argument was unbeatable. He leaned in to kiss her, as he loosened the towel around her, which then fell on the floor, unneeded.

"I almost feel sorry that we have to leave this domestic atmosphere." Irene said a while later, playing with Sherlock's hair, while he rested his head on her abdomen.

"Do I detect fear in your voice?" asked the detective, always on alert.

"I would be lying if I said you don't. But fear is good; it keeps you on alert, always sharp. And you? Do you allow yourself the luxury of fear?"

"Fear is a sentiment; it can only cloud your judgment. The best thing one can do is assess the risks of a situation and act upon that analysis without the unnecessary panic."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you work on batteries and that you have wires instead of blood vessels."

"And what do you know better?" he said, teasing her.

"I know that you are deep; that you feel. And I also know that Mycroft's remarks disturbed you deeply, as well as the unpredictable outcome of our mission." She put a finger on his lips and added:" I also know that my presence here calms you down significantly, and that you are secretly grateful for it, although you'd never allow yourself to admit that, since it is illogical to rely on me again."

"Are you after my job?"

"Maybe. The coat suits me well; we've concluded that a long time ago."

"There's more to it than the coat."

"True." She said. "There's the hat as well."

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><p>"Do I make you feel uncomfortable?" said Irene, sneaking in on Mycroft which made him jump.<p>

He quickly regained his serenity and tried to restrain the loathing he felt towards her.

"I would just prefer if you stayed dead. How did he succeed in saving you anyway? "

"You'll have to ask him, I was more focused on the final result. Did you forgive yourself for putting him through all this already, or does your redemption need more time?"

"Moriarty would find another way; he would never rest until Sherlock is out of the way." Mycroft unconsciously defended himself.

"So you simply decided to speed up the process, since it is inevitable?" said Irene, her tone more arguing.

"Are you disturbed by all of this? I sense hostility towards me; is it possible that you are influenced by feelings, so you are losing your temper out of protective reasons towards my brother, caused by romantic emotions? Or are you just playing the game, as always?" Mycroft asked, defying her with great pleasure.

"My motives are no concern of yours. I was simply pointing out the fact that in total, you did more harm to him than I could ever. The only thing I did so far was enlightening him in some aspects he should have been enlightened in a long time ago." She replied, smirking at how awkward Mycroft looked.

"I have no interest in those aspects of my brother's life, I can assure you."

"I am assured, since everything personal of his doesn't matter to you; he's just a bloodhound to you, prepared to do the leg work during the hunt."

They looked at each other hatefully, when she couldn't resist adding, with one eyebrow raised: "Good thing he has me now to take care of him, do you agree?"

Mycroft's ears were becoming dangerously red when Sherlock interrupted their verbal duel, potentially saving Irene from strangulation.

"Am I interrupting anything?" he said, pretending as if he wasn't eavesdropping at least a couple of minutes, not wanting to spoil the fun by entering.

"I was just explaining to Mycroft why you are a happy man to have me as your bride." Irene said, stroking Sherlock's arm in a possessive way.

"He doesn't seem so convinced." Sherlock simply added.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, then back to Irene, disgusted by the obvious similarly annoying sense of humor they both shared. Taking a deep breath and suppressing his urge to end his diet by a calming piece of cake, he said, in the calmest of tones:

"I have to go now; there are urgent matters I must attend to. I strongly advise that neither of you leaves the premise, London is very risky for resurrected people."

"I'm sure this house offers many different possibilities, we'll manage just fine." Said Irene, causing a disturbing number of even more disturbing images run through Mycroft's mind. He turned on his heal, marching out of the room.

As soon as he heard Mycroft slamming the front door in rage, Sherlock lifted Irene by her waist, looking at her in a way that sent impulses of excitement all the way down her spine. As a reaction, she wrapped her legs around him, easing him to carry her upstairs. He dropped her on the bed, not wasting even a second before he lay over her, his arms resuming their wrapping position around her. She was completely unaware of anything, completely consumed by his initiative in pulling her dress up with one of his hands and the way he was kissing her neck in the special place which he discovered on their third night together in China. She let out a moan, throwing her head back in trance of what his hands were doing in combination with his tongue. Just as he reached her navel, kissing his way down her now tense body, he threw in an apparently spontaneous question:

"Would you perhaps be in the mood of helping me with my plan?"

Irene smiled, thinking that she should have known; he started using her tricks against her and for worse, he was pulling it off.

She lifted herself up on her elbows, looking at him with a mixture of pride and acknowledgement.

"Mr. Holmes, is it possible that you started using cheap tricks to make women bend your will?"

"How am I doing?" he asked with a smirk.

They both burst into laugh.

"It suits you well. But..." she said, tracing the edge of his lips, "don't forget who taught you the basics".

She rolled him, so she now sat on top of him, just to have the feeling of control of the situation, a bit afraid of how strongly he started influencing her. Damn that man and his intelligence, he was learning very fast; this made her a bit afraid and very aroused. Suppressing those thoughts, she asked:

"What did you have in mind?"

"I have a plan on how to finish Moriarty off, and I need someone on the inside to do that. But...it could be dangerous."

"Danger is my middle name."

"And I thought it was Helen."

"How do you? Never mind. Continue." She said, visibly irritated.

"It is simple. I need someone, I don't know, maybe you to go to Moriarty, infiltrate in his network without getting dead or worse exposed and give me all the useful details I could use when I get there. You think you're the woman for the job?"

"You thought about this for a long time." She said, observing him carefully. "You were weighing the potential gains and losses; you were wondering how it would make you feel if I died in the process of your revenge. No, don't answer that, it's pointless to negate, I'm sure the guilt would haunt you, even if you have successfully suppressed that now. But then again, it is the most logical thing to do, in order to finally get the whole thing done which is the most important thing to you, given your true nature of a workaholic and a selfish sociopath. Besides, it gives you a unique opportunity to test my loyalty to you. So, since I am unlike any other woman, I'll look upon this as you trying to work out the problems in our marriage, not that you are being a manipulative bastard who is putting my neck on the line for his master plan."

"I knew there was logic in marrying you."

* * *

><p>The next day, Irene Adler also known as Yasim Anwar Ezard, and as of recently known as Sophie Jones got on a plane to Dublin, with a couple of secretly packed nicotine patches in her purse, just for good luck.<p>

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><p><strong>I was wondering, do you think Sherlock is still in character, given his new found sexuality? Thank you for reading and please review :)<strong>


	16. Chapter 16

Although he would never say it aloud, the feeling was painfully present even when he tried to suppress it, make it disappear by using logic or denial; Sherlock missed Irene. The last couple of months were unreal, untypical, dangerously emotional and passionate, as he tried to explain himself, but they had happened, in whatever way he tried to erase them from his hard drive. The scenes, the words, the touches came out of his memory palace into his thoughts, as vivid as they were when they occurred. All of that wasn't even half bad as the sickness in his stomach caused by the feeling of responsibility for potential future events. He was keeping himself together with one thought and one thought alone; it had to be done.

* * *

><p>James Moriarty was born as the younger of two brothers in a lower class family in Dublin. His mother did her best to raise her two sons, after her husband abandoned her when she was pregnant for the second time, so her younger son who was named after him never had a chance to meet him. That is until Jim found him when he was around fifteen, right after his mother's death, driven by anger and disgust for being named after somebody who hurt his mother badly, who left the only person he ever cared for. With her death, the few traces of humanity in her psychopathic younger son were gone, as he put his very much hated father out of his misery. And thus began the rise of Jim Moriarty, criminal master mind, unattached to anything human or good.<p>

He needed to settle down for a while, until the newspaper articles of Sherlock Holmes, the fraud detective and the tragically deceased actor Richard Brook became uninteresting to the public. He smiled perversely as he entered his childhood home, which he bought under a fake name many years ago, wondering what hell is like, since he successfully avoided it this time. He will find out one day, he was sure.

He was starting to get bored after a while, having contact only with the guards. It was the most dangerous thing with a man with his taste for fun; being bored. So, when an unexpected guest arrived, Jim smiled at her like a little child when unwrapping his brand new, shinny toy.

Irene looked at him with utter loathing. She knew his happiness couldn't mean anything good, so she didn't share his enthusiasm when he firmly hugged her.

"I'm so glad you came! I was going insaaane. Or even more insane, just to be precise. To what do I owe this immenssse pleasure?"

Irene took a step back, untangling herself out of his embrace.

"I need your help getting back into business. Things are not going as smoothly as they used to, so I decided to hire the consulting criminal once again." She said, giving him her best praising smile.

He started clapping his hands in his childlike manner, and then his face turned dark in a way that deeply frightened Irene.

"You made Sherlock unhappy. And now there is no more Sherlock. You are an evil woman and you shall pay."

"You were the one that made me do it." She said, giving a bit too many emotions in her voice.

"I know; I'm just kiiiding!" he said, laughing hysterically.

She started wondering whether she made the right choice by coming here, straight into the lion's jaws. Suddenly, she felt very insecure.

"I would say what I can offer, but all my propositions have already crossed your mind. And I know your answer is yes, since you are dying out of boredom." She stated, looking at him courageously.

Moriarty stared at Irene, his lips forming a goofy smile, his eyes cold and threatening. He approached her, touching her cheek.

"I could ssskin you if I want; don't forget that. But since the world is soooo boring without Sherlock, God bless him wherever he is, we could make some fuss. After all, we are good at that. I'm listening."

* * *

><p>The Holmes brothers sat at the breakfast table, reading the newspaper.<p>

"Are you afraid for her?" asked Mycroft, after a long time of holding it back.

"She will do the job as well as she can, that should be enough." Sherlock said, without looking away from the paper.

"You are lying; you crossed your legs under the chair, which means you're anxious."

"Maybe your deduction skills are weakening."

"And maybe you fell in love. It happens, you know."

Sherlock furled the paper, looking at his older brother.

"I have not." He said convincingly.

"In the end, I believed she truly cares." Mycroft reopening the subject his brother closed.

"Are you trying to mess with me because of the hypothetical weakness I might have, or are you suggesting you misjudged her?"

"Both." He said, smiling and opening his papers.

* * *

><p>A week later, when Sherlock reached two boxes of cigarettes a day, his plan finally showed some development. He was used to think alone but work in a duo; for the assistance or the admiration, he wasn't sure. For whatever it was, Mycroft's men following John have found out that he was planning to visit his aunt in Dublin the following day. Sherlock smiled, remembering the case of the car that backfired and how he thought he spoke to John the day before, when he was in Dublin too. He also remembered meeting Irene later that day. Shaking his head, while trying to shake his thoughts of, he started packing a small suitcase and preparing a disguise.<p>

Sherlock wasn't sure if Moriarty kept tabs on John after all this time, but he didn't want to take any chances. He drove to the ferry separately, leaving his car on the English coast before he boarded the ferry on foot. Since Sherlock passed away, John bought himself a small car, not being able to afford Sherlock's cab routine alone. The detective observed him as he went out of the car and headed for the fence, observing the sea distractedly.

John's phone made a noise, informing the army doctor that he had a new text waiting. He took the phone out and read it, holding the phone tight so it wouldn't fall out of his hand:

_If convenient, come to the men's toilet bellow deck._

John thought his tired mind was playing him, so he put the phone back in his pocket, when he heard another noise.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. _

John's eyes widened in shock. He looked around, searching for the creator of this sick joke, but he didn't notice anyone suspicious. He took a deep breath, telling himself that the hopes he still secretly had had no proof, and were therefore just a torture for him. He stood there for some minutes, staring blankly into the water, when his phone attracted his attention once again.

_It could be dangerous._

Preventing himself from running, he swiftly climbed down the stairs and headed for the toilet. To his disappointment, it was empty. Before he could turn around, an old man pushed him in and locked the door behind them.

"What the hell..?" John started yelling at this bad joke when the old man took of his beard.

John felt his knees betraying him and his hand shaking because of the ghostly apparition before him.

Sherlock smiled at his best friend in a gentle way, as he rarely did.

"Hello, John."

John just stared at him. Then he spoke in a shivering, insecure voice:

"I've lost it. I knew I'd lose it one day."

Sherlock's smile widened:"Punch me in the face to test if I'm real. And do it, because when you do realize it's the truth, you'll want to punch me anyway, so let's get over with that."

Three seconds later, John accepted Sherlock's kind offer. Sherlock had an expression of pain while pressing his aching cheekbone, but he found strength to laugh:

"At least you still love me, my nose and teeth are intact." He quickly added" It was a joke, calm down.", when he saw the anger rising in John's eyes.

"How the hell did you manage this?" John demanded, not knowing whether to be furious or ecstatic.

"I'll explain everything, but first, do you mind giving me a ride? I had a plan to sneak into the trunk of your car and come out somewhere along the road, when I'm sure nobody is following us."

John shook his head in disbelief of the situation; it was more than he could take at the moment.

"Follow us? Who? Why? You know what, I don't care. Get in the bloody trunk."

"Thank you. And John...I'm sorry that I put you through all of this, I had no other option, you'll hear about it later."

John opened the door discovering that quite a line has formed in front of the toilet during their conversation. Some old man commented:

"You two could have gotten a room."

Giving in to the enormous happiness he felt, John replied, smiling widely:

"We don't need to. We have a whole flat."

After almost an hour of driving on Irish soil, John pulled off the road, stopping the car. Sherlock jumped out of the trunk, happy to share another adventure with John. He joined him in the passenger's seat.

John couldn't help himself, so he pulled Sherlock in a tight hug. Sherlock was secretly happy by this act, but he only patted him on the shoulder twice as a sign of approval.

He started telling the story of how he had survived, why he had to jump in the first place, how he was hiding and how he now had a plan to solve the final problem. He left out the part about Irene in Amsterdam and in China, so in the end he only added one sentence that made John's mouth open in shock:

"Oh, and we have to save Irene Adler from Moriarty, I sent her to spy on him undercover."

"What did you just say?"

"I said we have to..."

"I've heard you. But Irene Adler is dead."

"You mean she is in a witness protection program in America? Come on John, I know there is no Santa Clause."

"You knew, all along? Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I saved her from the very certain death Mycroft sent her in; I couldn't resist messing with him." He added, to prevent John for asking about his motives.

"You saved...wow...this is a day full of surprises. And how does she fit in the whole story?"

Sherlock's mind was racing to find an explanation that is not a complete lie, since John wouldn't believe it, but that presents a mild, naive explanation:

"I asked her to help me, since she's skillful enough in the matter and she owes me."

John thought there was more to it, but he decided to drop the matter.

They drove for a while, and before entering Dublin, Sherlock went out of the car, keeping John's visit completely unsuspicious. They agreed that John should behave as always during his visits, and that Sherlock will call him when and if he needs him to jump in. The two friends parted with shaking their hands, proving that real friendship can survive a lot.

* * *

><p>The next evening, Sherlock texted John to meet him in an abandoned house.<p>

"What's the plan?" asked the army doctor, eager of action.

"I made an arrangement with Irene for her to come here, leading Moriarty's mercenaries to my hiding place. That's how I'll get in, and with her help, hopefully out. Since I don't trust her with my life, that's where you come in. Mycroft provided me with a locator which I've concealed in my shoe and a tracking device which you can use to find me and come to my rescue if everything else fails."

"Basically, you're putting yourself at risk to save a woman that will possibly betray you, relying on the possibility that I, and to make it clear, just I, will be able to help you against all of Moriarty's men?"

"Don't be so dramatic John. Mycroft is on hand, he's landing as we speak. But yes, it is a bit risky. Risky, but necessary. I hear steps, quickly, hide!"

Sherlock sat in a chair in the corner, looking as if he was in the same position for hours. Seconds later, Irene passed through the door and he slowly stood up to meet her. They looked at each other in a way that John interpreted as non verbal communication. Not wasting any time, she rushed towards him, making up for the time she hadn't seen him. John's eyes widened in shock when he realized Sherlock was letting her kiss him so intensely, and even more when he realized that he was responding quite enthusiastically to her actions.

She ran her hands all over him, driven by the fear of what is to come and the happiness that he stood in front of her once again. He held her tightly, trying to comfort her but also to remember every curve of her body, for just in case.

She pulled away from the kiss, leaning her forehead on his, holding his face with both of her hands. They shared a deep look, trying to express what should have been said, if there was time.

"Are you ready?" she asked, her voice giving away how nervous she was.

He nodded, taking both of her hands into his and pulling them down gently. She stepped back since she heard a number of people approaching them fast.

Five men with big guns rushed into the room, pushing Sherlock onto the floor as he looked at Irene in a hurt and angry way, his eyes speaking more than his words could. She laughed coldly, her gaze cold as ice, mocking at him. They both played the part flawlessly. The men cuffed him and the whole group exited the house, leaving John alone in his hiding place.

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><p><strong>If it isn't clear, Irene is just helping Sherlock in the end, not betraying him, I'm not sure if I explained that well enough. Thank you for reading and please review :)<strong>


	17. Chapter 17

**Hi! Sorry it took me a bit more to update then usual, I'm studying for a very important test. This is an important chapter, so I hope you'll like it :)**

* * *

><p>The guards didn't bother to cover up Sherlock's eyes during the twenty minute ride; they figured he wasn't going to return anyway. Irene sat beside him on the back seat, looking straight forward. She didn't make eye or any other contact, ignoring his presence completely. He was satisfied with the development of his plan up to that point, which he successfully covered by giving the impression of a broken man, staring at his shoes.<p>

They parked in front of an old house with a big yard, probably Moriarty's childhood home as Mycroft had informed Sherlock before. Two big men pulled him to the house as he heard the sound of high heels clapping quickly right behind him. One of the men opened the door, while the other let Sherlock drop on the floor like a luggage they just brought in.

"Careful now, we don't want our belooooved guest injured." said the well known voice on the top of the stairs.

Sherlock looked up from his non enviable position on the floor up at the man descending the stairs in a dark grey suit, smiling at him in a deranged way. His pupils were dilated as if he were on drugs, but Sherlock knew that it wasn't the result of any outside chemistry; it was 100% pure, organic madman.

"I'm so glad you could make it! And by coming, you've decided to give me another chance to permanently spare you of all the burdens life brings us. Ah, Mrs. Adler, I'm so glad you are here too, when only boys are playing with each other, the game tends to become rather dull, wouldn't you say? And now..." he said in a dramatic way, as if he was introducing a trick, and then his voice calmed and got a vicious note, "Throw them both in the basement. I'll deal with them later; I need to think of something very special for the occasion, it only happens once. Or in our case, only twice." He smiled like an evil scientist; he was no scientist, but he compensated that with the double amount of evil.

"What do you mean, throw us both? We had a deal." Irene rebelled, pretending as if he was joking, but still giving away some of the doubt in her voice.

"Oh, yes, sorry about that." Moriarty replied with a puppy dog face. "Upon recalling your touching sadness when you had to perform the heartbreaking play so many months ago, I realized you would always rather choose Sherlock over me. Which is fine by the way, I completely understand, he is soooo adorable with his cheekbones."

He signaled the guards with his hand as they got hold of both Sherlock and Irene.

Moriarty turned, as if he remembered something:

"And take their wrist watches off, people tend to misuse them." He smiled devilishly, continuing his way into the dark hall.

Minutes later, Sherlock and Irene were tightly secured together with two pairs of cuffs, back to back, leaning on a thin pole between them. Their maneuverability was very limited, which caused great frustration in both of them. When the guard's left, Irene said ironically:

"Well, this we haven't tried before."

They sat there in silence, their brains operating at high speed, putting all their resources into finding a solution, but their hands were tied. Sherlock remained quiet too long for her taste, so Irene decided to try to establish communication with him, although it was probably a useless attempt:

"Talk to me, it might as well be our last time. I know it sound dramatically and endlessly pathetic, but it's the truth."

He was silent for another moment, and then he seriously said:

"You weren't lying. You really lied to me to protect me."

She sighed, unable to be really happy about him realizing it given the current circumstances.

"You couldn't have known. In fact, the fact that you bought it only means that I did a hell of a job acting it, which was rather the point."

A long silence filled the room again, making Irene feel even more depressed.

"So in fact, you care about me?" he said carefully, reexamining himself more than her. Every word expressed his surprise that he was saying it out loud in the first place and the acknowledgement of what was said, coming straight out of his deepest thoughts.

"You don't ask a lady such questions." She said mischievously.

"You're not a lady." He said, his voice sounding as usual as he mentally returned to the present situation.

"True. That's why you like me." She couldn't resist adding.

He rolled his eyes to her statement, but allowed himself to smile a bit, aware that she couldn't see it from her position.

"I know you smiled, I don't have to see it."

"Let's just focus on getting ourselves out of here, if you don't mind?"

"Certainly. What's the plan?"

"I made an arrangement with John that he should come to my rescue if you are proven unreliable. But, if he is detained, it would be best if we thought of another solution, given the stakes in question."

"You always have a plan B, so you always land on your feet. Very nice. And as for now, the only things I can think of are my hairpins, but I'm not able to reach them. Might giving me a hand with that...or teeth?"

Irene leaned on her side toward Sherlock, blinking nervously as she tried to keep balance while he clumsily tried to take a pin out of her hair with his teeth.

"Are you done yet? Ouch! You're pulling my hair."

"Forry." He said with his mouth full of her hair. "Got it." He said, spiting the pin on the floor.

Irene got hold of the pin and started tampering with the lock.

"Give it to me." Sherlock said in an annoyed tone when she didn't succeed immediately, his fingers wrestling with hers.

"Hush now, I've dealt with more of these then you'll get a chance to in your lifetime."

"Fair point."

Less than a minute later, they heard a small click, notifying them that Irene indeed succeeded. They stood up, still tied on one side.

She smirked at him: "I told you I know my way around cuffs."

They heard footsteps approaching them on the stairs leading to the basement, and after a second of analyzing the situation, Sherlock quickly pulled Irene behind some carts on their side. She looked at him, trying to read his future actions in his eyes, but he only nodded, which she interpreted as 'trust me'.

Moments later, two armed guards rushed into the room, finding it seemingly empty. The man who was apparently in charge nodded at the other one, which Sherlock, looking through a small opening from his hideout, interpreted as a silent order to search for them, since the man correctly assumed that they were still nearby. One of the men sneaked close to their hideout, too close. Sherlock took advantage of a small moment of his disregard and knocked him unconscious. From the perspective of the consulting detective, the scene taking place reminded him a lot on a scene in a certain house in Belgravia, since The Woman didn't waste any time. The split second the other guard needed to turn around she already pointed the gun of the fainted man in his direction with deadly determination in her eyes.

"Drop it. Slowly." She said, her arms forming a straight angle with her body, her finger on the trigger while her opponent's weapon was still in a raising position. He figured she meant it, so he slowly put the rifle on the floor.

"Good boy." She complimented him. "Get the keys from him." She ordered Sherlock, who decided not to object to her way, now that she was in her natural dominatrix mood.

The situation became a déjà vu even more when Irene hit the last standing guard with her gun, without Sherlock even asking for it. A strange wave of pride floated him but he quickly shook it off in order to keep his head clear. They heard the sound of another pair of feet closing in on them, so they both raised their newly acquired weapons in the direction of the stairs. To their surprise, it was John.

"John." Sherlock greeted him. "Glad you could join us."

Irene turned towards Sherlock with an amused expression: "How cautious of you, not trusting me. I like cautious." She said, leaning in towards him.

"Not in front of the kid." Sherlock said amusement; showing at John's shocked face.

She turned around. "Hello John, long time no see. Are you joining us alone or do you too have a trick up your sleeve?"

John suppressed all his burning questions and remarks.

"The police and the government people are right in front of the house, no one can go anywhere. I came in to check up on you, since I wasn't sure whether you...um..."

"Whether he was once again misled by me?" Irene smiled at the reaction she always seemed to cause in John; surprise with just a small bit of fear.

"Well yes, to be honest."

Sherlock's face got serious: "And Moriarty?"

"He is somewhere inside; I haven't seen...Sherlock where are you going?" John anxiously asked when Sherlock crossed the room in a few long steps, heading for the stairs.

"I have to finish this, once and for all. Stay with her." He said to John, and before any words had the chance to come out of his or Irene's mouth, Sherlock added "I mean it. Don't follow me."

They both stayed, holding on to their guns, looking at each other in the deepest of worries.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was searching the house for any sign of Moriarty when he stepped on a crunching board. This set off another memory, on the day the same thing happened to Moriarty when he visited him after the trial. Sherlock Holmes normally trusted only facts, but the feeling in his stomach and never ending parallels between the past and the present (and not the future this time, he hoped) made him try the door of the next room. And there he was, Jim Moriarty himself, staring at the door that Sherlock just opened, waiting for him.<p>

"I thought you might drop by." Said the consulting criminal.

"I was in the neighborhood." Sherlock calmly replied, tightening the grasp on the handle of his gun.

"So Sherlock, you've decided to become a big boy. Have you ever killed anyone? And I don't mean those silly self defense things, real murder! Or will I be your first? I understand you had some other first's lately." He smiled because he knew it made Sherlock uncomfortable on some level beyond visible.

"There's a first for everything. Do you feel honored?"

"As aaaalways. But, what makes you believe that you will win? You can't win Sherlock. Even if I'm gone, hundreds of baby spiders will chase you on the threads I made until they eat you, you little naughty fly. You are me. But there isn't enough of you to fight all of us; you can't count on the people, they are so stupid. Give up. Admit it, walk out the door and don't look back; the world will survive without you. Go on."

Sherlock just smiled.

"I knew you would do this the hard way." Moriarty sighed.

The next couple of seconds were full of events; Moriarty grabbed a revolver hidden in the chair and fired at Sherlock who tried to dodge it but got hit in the shoulder; Sherlock shot at Moriarty, missing his ear by an inch; A third bullet hit Moriarty between the eyes, and the last thing Sherlock saw before falling onto the floor was the look on surprise on his face, which he will happily cherish for the rest of his life.

Irene quickly approached Sherlock, dropping her gun on the floor:

"You're wounded." She simply stated, tearing his shirt sleeve to make an improvised bandage.

"What are you doing here?" he quietly asked, tormented by the pain.

"Never send a man to do The Woman's job." She smiled down at him, moving away so John could approach since he just arrived.

While he attended their beloved patient, Irene slowly approached Moriarty's finally dead body. Even dead, he looked up at her with a mad gaze from his motionless eyes. She shut his eyelids, ending the Saga of The Napoleon of Crime once and for all.

Mycroft's people accompanied by the local police quickly flooded the premises in order to control the situation, which they did. The papers would later describe the incident as a show down of a local gang, never mentioning the second death of the crime genius.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was driven to the hospital, accompanied by John and Irene. He needed to be attend to, although he was lucky and the bullet went through missing the major blood vessels. John was allowed to join the local doctors inside the room and Irene was left to wait in the hallway as a non medical personnel. She just sat there, expressionless, choosing not to think of anything since there were far to many thing to be thought of.<p>

"Coffee?" Mycroft's voice addressed her with a surprising lack of hatred.

She looked up at him: "Thank you.", also trying to keep the friendliness in her voice.

They sat beside each other for quite some time, silently. None of them knew what would be appropriate to say, and if they started with the inappropriate, they wouldn't know how to stop. Mycroft broke the silence in a way that surprised Irene deeply:

"Thank you for saving my brother."

"It was a pleasure."

"So, what now?" he sighed. "You're dead, he's dead and the whole underground will be after both of you. Any ideas?"

"To be honest" she said, giving a chance to this new, strange, friendly way of communication with the older Holmes brother, "I'm hoping he'll come out of that room with a few of those."

"Dangerous times are ahead."

Irene said nothing, holding her plastic coffee mug with both hands, as if the warmth from it was comforting her.

Sherlock's stubborn refusal of staying in the hospital was given in to, so he was discharged in a few hours with very many pills for all sorts of unimportant things, as he thought and John's oath to the doctor's that he will take care of him 24/7.

"Bed rest, Sherlock, bed rest. I'll have Mycroft lock you up in here if you defy me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at this childlike treatment he was receiving. They finally came into the hall where they found Mycroft and Irene waiting.

Sherlock caught Irene's look and at that moment he realized how many things should yet be discussed about. So many aspects he was not clear about and so many things that scared the hell out of him. He felt as if time had stopped while he looked at her, temporarily loosing his ability to speak.

"...and we'll put you in a cab to the hotel." He heard John finishing his sentence somewhere far, far away as it seemed.

"Come on." The doctor said, taking him under his healthy arm, unaware of the situation.

Mycroft showed more tact as he took a step back, admiring the hospital ceiling diligently.

"John, wait." Sherlock finally said, trying to resume control over his thoughts once again.

John finally got it, as his face turned lightly pinkish.

Sherlock approached Irene, reading the panic, confusion and cluelessness on her face, the same feelings he knew she could deduce on his.

Trying to sound as spontaneous as possible, although it sounded nervous in a becoming way, he very quietly asked her:

"Would you have dinner with me?"

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><p><strong>Thank you for reading and please review :)<strong>


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